


fic for fighting back

by deadlybride



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Hannibal (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Expanse (TV)
Genre: Compilation, Multi, please see chapter one for details
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 52,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24924100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: A collection of fics written during the month of June as part of my tumblr-challenge, "fic for fighting back." Most requested stories were for Supernatural, but other fandoms were also represented. Please see chapter one for a guide to the individual stories, along with any additional warnings or information.
Relationships: Amos Burton/Alex Kamal, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sephiroth/Cloud Strife, Tony Stark/Stephen Strange, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 65
Kudos: 100





	1. table of contents

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to really thank all of the readers who requested stories. Some were only able to give a little and some gave a lot, and I know some donated first and saw the opportunity to get a fic later, but it made me glad to see fandom trying to help. There are too many places that need help, and most of the time it feels like there's not enough that regular people can do, but we raised some money for things that were important, and that's something.

These are the fics written in exchange for donations to organizations that support Black Lives Matter. All told, readers donated $1,097, to the following organizations: Black Lives Matter; the ACLU; the NAACP Legal Defense Fund; the Minnesota Freedom Fund; the Black Visions Collective; Assata's Daughters; Black Girl Hockey Club; the Sylvia Rivera Law Project; Blacktransfuture; bail funds in many cities; and funeral GoFundMes.

I did my best to follow the spirit of each request, taking approximately an hour to write each story. I hope that those who donated enjoyed the fills. Below is the list of fics in the order they were written.

  1. Supernatural: Gabriel/Rowena, meeting through the years. Rated M; mild spoilers for s13.
  2. Supernatural: Sam/Dean, omegaverse. Rated E; season 1, first time, non-traditional a/b/o dynamics.
  3. Supernatural RPF: Jensen/Jeff, voyeur Jared. Rated E; non-AU, established relationship, semi-public sex, voyeurism.
  4. The Expanse: Amos/Alex. Rated M; season 1, panty kink, semi-drunk decision making, non-established relationship.
  5. Final Fantasy VII: Cloud/Sephiroth. Rated M; memory issues, dubious consent, body horror implied.
  6. Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated E; season 3, first time, dubious consent, one-sided pining, angst.
  7. Hannibal: Hannibal/Will. Rated M; post-canon, pining, mild blood.
  8. Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated E; season 14, post-Michael possession, piercings, mild D/s.
  9. MCU: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange. Rated T; post-Civil War AU.
  10. Supernatural: Dean/Bobby. Rated M; Stanford era, injury, daddy issues.
  11. Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated E; bunker era, mommy kink.
  12. Supernatural: Sam & Dean gen. Rated M; season 7, Sam's hallucinations, canon levels of self-harm.
  13. Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated M; s2, Sam's cast; angst.
  14. MCU: Sam Wilson & Bucky Barnes gen. Rated M: post-Endgame setting, race issues, real-world BLM protests mentioned.
  15. Supernatural RPF: Jared/Jensen. Rated E; J2 AU, established relationship, established BDSM switching, CBT, aftercare.
  16. Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated E; pre-series, underage, first time, pining!Sam.
  17. Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated M; season 14, post-Michael possession, amnesia.
  18. Supernatural: Sam/Dean/Jack. Rated M; season 14, established relationship (wincest), implied sex.
  19. Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated E; season 3, established relationship, established BDSM, dildo use, mild painplay.
  20. Supernatural: Sam/demon!Dean. Rated E; season 10, noncon, non-traditional a/b/o dynamics, pregnancy kink.
  21. Supernatural: Sam/Dean, dealing with Stanford. Rated M; bunker era, established relationship.
  22. Supernatural: soulless!Sam/prostitute!Dean, time travel. Rated E; prostitution, dubcon (undisclosed identity), painplay.
  23. Supernatural: Sam/Dean, implied Dean/John. Rated M; pining!Sam, jealousy, parental incest implied.
  24. Supernatural: Lucifer!Sam/Dean. Rated E; Endverse, noncon, angst.
  25. Supernatural: Sam/Dean, tentacle sex. Rated E; bunker era, established relationship, body horror, dubcon, oviposition.
  26. Supernatural: Sam/Dean, belly bulge kink. Rated E; bunker era, established relationship, body transformation, curse fic.




	2. SPN: Gabriel/Rowena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Gabriel/Rowena, meeting through the years. Rated M; mild spoilers for s13.

It was raining and cold and muddy and the stocks were not comfortable in the least, which Rowena supposed was rather the point. At least this town didn’t go for the usual rotten vegetable-tossing. She hadn’t even done anything all that awful, in her opinion. Of course, there was the priest she’d seduced—and she’d transfigured the mayor’s awful priss of a daughter into a white mare and sacrificed her in the woods under the moon—and there was the lightning storm that struck the fields after and caused that fire in the wheat stores—but it’s not as though she’d caused a plague, or anything. It really was overreacting. They hadn’t even caught the full force of what proper witching could do.

Still, provincial as they were, they’d decided it was all her fault, and so it was five days in the stocks to starve before they burned her. She’d tried to explain that it wasn’t the 17th century anymore—and really, if anyone was going to burn she hoped it was Roger Nowell, that snake—but of course they didn’t listen. People never did, to women.

She was composing a new spell in her head that’d dissolve wood into sawdust when there was a far too familiar pat on her bottom. "Stole a sheep, did you?" someone said.

A man. Ugh. "I am innocent of any charge, good sir!" she said. Made sure her voice was sweet and piping as a shepherd’s flute. "I have done no crime, I swear it."

"Swearing’s a sin," the man said, and she rolled her eyes. Still raining, still dark, still cold as a swiving pig in a mud bog, and he made a joke. She was probably expected to laugh. There was a squelch in the mud, and he walked around to the front of the stocks. She blinked, craning her neck.

Handsome. In a way. His hat kept his face dry but made it hard to see his eyes in the guttering torchlight. Slight, but clearly moneyed, and she cleared her throat and poured all the honey should could into her pleading. "Oh, sir," she said. Meek and faint, that was her. "Please. It is so cold. In your Christian charity, could you not see clear to—to aiding me, in my time of hardship?"

"Hardship, huh," he said, and grinned. She frowned, hoping he couldn’t see it through the vile wet mat her hair had become, but—then there was a click, and a faint spark in the air, and her mouth immediately tasted of lightning-strikes and burnt sugar, and the stocks fell apart around her.

She stumbled, and a hand caught her before she could fall in the mud. "I got a soft spot for trouble-makers," the man said, grinning still as he helped her upright. "What can I say."

"Witch," she breathed, something pinging in her like a plucked lute string.

He smiled more deeply. She could see better now; his eyes were dark gold and tilted as a cat’s. He tweaked her chin. "Takes one to know one, Red," he said, and in the next second he was gone.

*

She met him again on a ship to America. That it was a hundred years later didn’t seem to phase him. She’d bewitched the ship captain into letting her board, but the rest of the crew were being difficult. Restive and superstitious, and malodorous to boot. Her tiny quarters just beside the captain’s cabin were safe enough, but stifling and dark, and she’d gotten into the habit of walking the deck at night. Sea air and moonlight, and the ship’s lanterns picking little brightnesses out of the dark. She could see how merwitches would want to live like this.

"Velvet suits you better than mud," she heard.

That strange voice. She turned her head and—yes. There he was. "I’ve often said so," she replied, cool. He grinned at her, because of course he did, and she folded her hands on the rail, calm. "Good sir, I’m afraid we haven’t been properly introduced."

"Oh, well," he said, "if we’re going to be proper." He effected a reasonable bow, though a rather old-fashioned one. He wore a suit of dark blue silk, comfort and ease in his slight plumpness, in his soft hand when he captured hers to kiss her knuckles. His breath puffed over her skin, warm, and he smiled up at her. "They’ve called me Loki."

She curled her fingers in his. Her center clenched. "Loki," she said. "I am called Rowena."

"Rowena," he said, and stood from his bow, and stepped close enough that his boots brushed aside her skirts. "Rowena the witch, from Canisbay. Daughter of the tanner, MacLeod. Student of d’Albioni." He ran his thumb over her knuckles. "Am I close?"

"Very," she breathed. "My lord."

"Lord, huh," Loki said, and wrapped his arm around her lower back. "I like that."

She smiled back, giddy. A god. This was so much better than a ship captain. "I thought you might."

*

They had a falling out in Philadelphia. They came back together in Paris, in 1842, and had a torrential affair that got them both chased out of the palace. In 1914 she holed up in Morocco and Loki visited her three times, three midnights, and she wasn’t fond of him but he did bring her whisky from home, each time, and she let him inside because he smiled, and after all, it could’ve been worse. In 1970 they danced in Glasgow and he glassed a drunk for her; in November 1983, he rose up from her bed in the middle of the night and stared up through the ceiling and said, very distinctly, "Oh, you fuckers," and flicked away without another word, and she didn’t see him after that until apocalypses came and went, and she’d met two boys who’d been the cause of most of them, and then one day she was standing a bunker putting together a ridiculously simple spell, and he walked in wearing a leather jacket with his hair as tousled as it had always been, and he was Gabriel, then, an archangel, and when the boys were gone she said, "You lied to me, my lord," in the soft voice she’d used back then, and he grinned at her, not at all ashamed, and he said, "I’m tricky like that, Red," and she let him take her hand, and grinned back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/619833617280122880/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-amoreanonyname)


	3. SPN: wincest, a/b/o first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/Dean, omegaverse. Rated E; season 1, first time, non-traditional a/b/o dynamics.

First time Dean gets his heat when they’re working together again, Sam doesn’t—at first—have any idea what’s going on.

He’d been with a woman, for two years; before that, he didn’t really date anyone, girl or hal, at least not long enough to get to know their cycles. It’s not much of an excuse, with Dean, who got his first heat when Sam was eleven and followed pretty much the same pattern, twice a year, every year.

They’re in Florida, and it’s only March but it’s already getting hot there, humid and sticky and gross in the sun or shade. A ghost hunt just finished, and a decent collection of bruises between them, and they take a day off to stock up the car again, to regroup. The motel, at least, has working air conditioner, and Sam’s stripped to a t-shirt and boxers at the table, biting his nails and lazily looking for a case, and Dean—still hasn’t gotten out of bed. Ten in the morning, and yeah, maybe they don’t get the opportunity much to sleep in, but still. Sam squints at the lump in the bed. Throws the motel notepad somewhere near a rounded curve of hip, and says, "Seriously?"

A grunt. "I’m tired," comes Dean’s voice, scratchy from below the pile of blankets. He doesn’t even know how Dean can stand the covers—even with the a/c set to 70, he can feel sweat gathering below his hairline. "Go away."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Are you sick or something?"

A shift, and the blanket tugs down enough for Dean to give him a look, his hair rumpled and his eyes bleary. "Or something," he mutters, and fitfully pushes the blankets down to his waist. He’s got his usual grey camisole on, the USMC logo nearly illegible over the chest, but his skin’s flushed pink at his shoulders and cheeks and throat, and he actually does look a little—Sam frowns. Dean rubs his eye, smearing the raccoon-stain of the eyeliner he never washes off right, and then squints at Sam. "Could you—coffee? Food?"

"Was that a request?" Sam says, raising his eyebrows, and he doesn’t exactly want to be an errand boy but—Dean’s nodding, vaguely miserable, and Sam sighs, and stands up, and points. "You have to get the next one."

"Sure thing, boss," Dean says, and flops back into the pillow.

*

Closest thing to them is a Pilot, and even if it’s less than two blocks Sam takes the car. Too hot to walk. He wishes he owned a single pair of shorts. The truck stop’s not too busy, and Sam wanders up and down the aisles in the c-store, just stretching his legs, not in a hurry for once. A t-shirt with three wolves on it—Dean might actually wear that. Keychains, license plate holders. Oil in gallon jugs, and Sam thinks that might actually be a decent price, and makes a note to tell Dean, in case the Impala needs a change. Around the other aisle there’s the usual light drugs, caffeine pills and aspirin and Pepto and everything else a trucker needs to get through a haul, and Sam’s got a bottle of Tylenol in hand when his eye glances over the familiar tubes with their dainty purple labels that say Kool Kream, and he pauses, and realizes—oh. Fuck.

Kool Kream, and he’d always made fun of the name, but when they were kids Dean used it semi-religiously. His heats were about average, as far as Sam knew, but he would overheat sometimes, and chafe, and Dad would bring it home for him without even making rumbly pronouncements about the extra cost. A few times, when Dad wasn’t home, Sam would get sent out too, and he’d put it on the counter with beef jerky and a Coke like somehow that’d mask what he was buying, and he knew he was blushing to the top of his head, but the cashiers usually didn’t say anything. Weird kind of practice, for buying Midol and tampons for Jessica.

He gets two cups of coffee, and two ice cream bars, and a bag of the slightly suspect deli-case sandwiches, and two tubes of the cream, and the cashier just smiles at him and wishes him a nice day. He doesn’t know how he missed it. Dean always used to get super tired, the day or two before his heat, and then it was—embarrassing, sure, but also made Sam feel kind of… tender. Dean was a pain in the ass, a lot of the time, and made it his life’s mission to annoy Sam, a lot of the time, but for that week Sam always felt…

Shower’s going, with the door barely cracked, when Sam comes into the room. Dean’s bed is a complete wreck, and Sam leans over it to tug the blankets into some kind of order, just to make it more comfortable in case Dean wanted to crawl back in, and—yeah. Smells like… sweat, a little, but more like the tang of slick, and Sam’s mouth waters and he has to swallow it back. Dean’s favorite kind of porn is still heat-sex, and even if Sam tells him he doesn’t want to hear it Sam’s watched it, too, and unfortunately real life isn’t the sex-crazed, impossible-to-deny, irresistible ravishment of that genre—but, fuck, if Sam hasn’t jerked off to the idea, more than just about anything else.

Shower sputters off, and he calls out, "Coffee’s here," just so Dean knows that Sam is too.

The bathroom door immediately swings further open and Dean sticks his head out, wet hair pushed back from his forehead. "Thank god," he says, and makes a grabby hand.

Sam rolls his eyes, comes over. Coffee, and a sausage sandwich that Dean makes excited noises at, and then Sam offers up the tube of cream. Dean blinks at it, then at Sam. "I just thought," Sam starts, and shrugs. "If you still use it."

Dean licks his lips. He’s pink all over, his shoulder curving out from around the door, and his throat, and his cheeks, and his ears where his hair’s tucked back. He’s washed his face and there’s hardly any eyeliner left, but his lashes are still thick, damp and dark. "You remembered," he says, soft. He takes it, too, and leans over to put his coffee and sandwich on the bathroom sink. He pauses there, towel caught around his waist, and looks at the tube in his hand.

His bare chest is pink, too, flat but soft, and Sam swallows. "Anything else you need?" he says.

Pause, and Dean lifts one shoulder, still looking at the tube. "Don’t suppose they had dildos in stock at the Pilot, huh?" he says, crass, but his heart’s not in it.

Sam huffs. He leans his shoulder against the door frame, hands in his pockets. "Thought you used a toothbrush holder," he says—wondering, careful, if Dean would remember—that time, in Eugene, when Sam had walked in, and Dean had had the covers tugged up to his chest but his knees wide and his hand working under the sheets, and he’d gasped and said god, Sam, knock, and—

Dean bites his lip. Looks up, and Sam sees that he does remember, and Dean doesn’t move but his eyes are massively dark, his pupils wide, and he says, level, "Not if I can get something better," and Sam tugs his hand out of his pocket and touches Dean’s jaw—soft, incredibly hot—and Dean’s lips part and then Sam steps forward and ducks the however-many-inches down and kisses him, hard and all at once, and Dean shoves at his chest and says, mumbly between their mouths, "How fucking long have you been waiting to do that, you dick?" and then loops his arm around Sam’s neck and kisses back.

"So long," Sam breathes, "so fucking long—" and Dean moans, grabs at him. The towel falls immediately and Sam drops his hands, grabs him under the ass, hauls him in. Jesus, jesus, he’s so soft and so built, his hips that heart-shaped curve that Sam dreamed about for ten years, his ass full and sweet, his shoulders strong and his hands grabbing, grasping, pulling at Sam’s shirt, wanting just as much as Sam has always wanted. "Dean—"

"You are killing me," Dean says, tugging back, breathing hot up into his face. He’s red-cheeked, his mouth wet. "Sammy, for fuck’s sake."

"I know," Sam says, even if he doesn’t—and he ducks and kisses Dean again, and then ducks another inch and grabs him under the thighs, picks him up in an easy haul—just what he’s always pictured—porno scenarios slipping through his mind—and, yeah, Dean gasps, squirms against him, his clit hard and rubbing against Sam’s stomach, through his t-shirt. He dumps Dean on the closest bed—Sam’s—follows him down, getting his hips between Dean’s spread-wide thighs, pushing his dick up against Dean’s clit. Overwhelming—all this skin, soft and hot, and Dean’s face most of all, watching Sam with laser focus, his hands sliding into Sam’s hair.

"You got a condom?" Dean says, dark, offering, and Sam grimaces—not the kind that’ll hold a knot, not with Dean’s body pumping out hormones like it is now. Dean throws his head back against the mattress, groans, and Sam shakes his head—"It’s okay," he says—"it’s okay, let me just—I’ll—" and he slides his hand down Dean’s side and gives his clit a few pumping strokes, makes Dean squirm, and then slides two fingers down the soft smooth stretch from the root of the clit down to his asshole, where it is—god—soft, and wet, and open, and Sam says hotly, "Were you fingering yourself? In the shower?" and Dean says, on a groan, "What do you think, Sherlock?" and Sam kisses his throat and shoves his fingers in, fast and to the knuckles, all at once. Dean flinches, moans loud. Fuck, fuck—hot inside, so hot, and squishily wet from how much Dean’s giving up. Tight at the entrance and softer inside, and Sam can imagine—how he’ll get in there—"How do you like it?" he says, against Dean’s throat, and Dean shoves his hips down against Sam’s hand and gulps air, so that Sam has to lift his head up, look at him. "C’mon, c’mon. Tell me. Like this, on your back?"

"Sam," Dean groans, and Sam starts really working his fingers, shoving in and out, pressing and curling to try to find that rough patch, the holy grail, and Sam says, "I’d do it however you want—however, you just gotta tell me. That good?"

Dean reaches down between them, grabs Sam’s wrist. "You know it’s good," he says, curling his hips. "Shit, shit—"

Slick all over Sam’s fingers, slipping down his knuckles. Dean’s going to be a mess. "Fuck, you’re wet," he mumbles, and kisses Dean, and Dean squeezes his wrist hard and humps his hips up and comes rippling, shockingly fast, his ass clenching around the space where a knot should be, where Sam should give it to him. Where he will. He’s throbbing, in his jeans, and he kisses Dean’s mouth, his jaw, his throat, breathes in his smell. Fuck.

Dean’s thighs fall open, slowly, and Sam drags his fingers out with a gush. They feel almost bruised, from the pressure inside, but he doesn’t care. He sucks them clean and gets that tang, sharp and almost vile, intense, and Dean opens his eyes then and drags in a breath, shaky. "Jesus, you’re a freak," he says, but—admiring.

Sam smiles at him. He’s covered in sweat and his balls feel like they’re going to explode and he hasn’t even had his coffee, yet. "You haven’t seen anything," he says, soft as a promise, and Dean grins, happier than Sam’s seen him in months, and pulls him in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/619846722124922880/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-husbro-donated)


	4. SPN RPF: Jensen/Jeff, voyeur Jared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural RPF: Jensen/Jeff, voyeur Jared. Rated E; non-AU, established relationship, semi-public sex, voyeurism.

"Okay, everybody, we’re going to call that lunch. Crew, back at 1:30; cast at 2:00."

Jared wasn’t even in the scene, but he relaxes. It’s boring in his trailer when he’s waiting to shoot coverage and, anyway, this is a fun crew. Greg the sound guy high-fives Jared as he heads for craft services and Tori the script supervisor invites him for beers later at their new favorite bar. "I’m so there," Jared says. "In fact, I’m so there I’m actually already there, and I’m waiting for you to show!"

Tori grins at him, rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. See you later."

Most everyone’s cleared out of the set already. There’s a little huddle going on near the screens as they work out something about—Jared doesn’t know, editing or whatever—but other than that, the cast and crew pretty much evaporate when lunch gets called. Means it’s pretty quiet, on the stages. Means there’s privacy, if anyone needs it.

Jensen was gone about one minute after the cut was called. Time enough to smile at people, shake the hand of the extra they’d brought in for the scene. Enough to be polite and not suspicious, and—well, who’d be suspicious? Jensen’s perfect. Jared’s oversensitive, maybe. With what he knows.

He’s still wearing Sam’s costume, from shooting a few scenes ago, and they’re going to pick up a Dean and Sam scene after lunch. The sneakers are soft, comfortable, nearly silent as he walks through the stages, getting further and further in. Darker, back here, with only the ambient lights high up in the ceiling illuminating things, and he sticks his hands in his pockets, tries to chill out. He doesn’t even know if what he’s looking for is going to be there. No need to get excited, before it’s time.

He passes the interior set for Bobby’s house, all tumbled props and fake dust. A motel shell, currently half-stripped for another new insane design. Furthest back is a bar set, this new roadhouse location they’re bringing in for next episode, and he hears—a laugh, and stops in his tracks, and has to take a deep breath.

It was an accident, the first time. He really didn’t know what he was walking into. It had been that episode with the shadow demons, when John Winchester met up with his sons again, and afterward they’d all gone drinking and Jeff bought everybody rounds—was charming, and funny, and awesome. Jared liked him a lot; Jensen liked him even more. They’d gone back to Jeff’s rental house for a few more drinks, after the bar, and Jared had gone to the bathroom and then he’d spent some time talking shit at Hank and Mike playing that basketball game on the Playstation, and then he’d realized Jeff and Jensen were MIA, and he’d looked in the kitchen and in the den, and he’d turned into the hall down to the bedrooms and he’d—

They’re here. Another laugh—Jensen says, "Shut up," quiet but not quiet enough that it doesn’t carry, and Jeff says, a little louder, "Maybe you should make me," and Jared bites the inside of his cheek. Every time. This happens every time there’s been a John Winchester scene, and he doesn’t know how he’s getting this lucky.

The roadhouse set has a big frame—wooden walls, a bar. He’s careful as he comes up to the side, listens careful. Jeff says, "Oh, that’s right," dirty and nasty-low like Jeff’s voice can get, and Jensen makes a—sound, something Jared’s gotten to recognize. That’s Jensen turned on beyond belief, wanting something. Jared bites his lip, eases closer. Lines up, against the very edge of the set, and peeks around, and sees:

Oh, fuck. Jeff’s in street wear, with his coverage finished for the day; Jensen’s still in Dean’s hospital clothes, and Jeff has him crowded up against the edge of a pool table, his hands under the thin white shirt, his mouth up against the back of Jensen’s ear. They’re in profile to where Jared’s watching and the lights are dim, but Jared can still see how Jensen’s eyes slide shut and how he tips his hips back against Jeff’s crotch, how Jeff’s hand moves under the shirt and Jensen huffs out a low fuck.

"You said to be quiet," Jeff says, low and teasing, and Jensen flails a hand back and grabs his hip, says, "Oh, fuck you," and Jeff grins and kisses his shoulder. Soft, almost sweet, and Jared presses his temple against the set wall, hot and sick inside. God, they look good together. Comfortable, knowing each other’s bodies, and even that first time when Jeff had Jensen pressed against the wall in that hallway, practically eating his mouth, it looked—right. Like that was how it should be.

Jeff’s hand slides down Jensen’s stomach, palms at his dick through the thin hospital pants. "You ready?" he says, soft, and Jensen nods, fast. He’s so much cooler than Jared is—always calm, in control—except like this, with Jeff, and it just makes Jared’s dick throb, every time. Jared watches while Jeff undoes the drawstring on the pants, while he pushes them down along with the white boxers, and Jensen’s dick spills out, heavy and thick, dragging against the wood rail. Jeff gathers it up in a big hand, squeezes, and Jensen groans, loud enough that he covers his mouth with his own hand. "That’s right," Jeff says, grinning big again, but then he’s probing at Jensen’s ass with his other hand, not asking, and Jensen props his hands on the pool table, his shoulders high and his head dropping, the line of his back curving down to where Jeff’s fingers are inside him.

It’s Jeff who groans, though, unexpected. "Oh, sweetheart," he says, and Jensen smiles, eyes closed, tipping up his hips. "When did you manage that?"

"That break for the blown light," Jensen says, and it’s quiet but it’s cocky. "Knew you’d want to take lunch. Was I right?"

Jeff kisses the back of his neck, his shoulder, says, "So right," sounding almost dumb, and he’s fumbling his jeans open, drawing out his dick and pumping it, dark in the space between them, before Jared finally puts together—Jensen lubed himself up. On set. In costume, in a break between scenes. Jared feels his face go bright red, the heat searing up in his cheeks and throat, and he has to get a hand on his crotch, squeezing through his jeans, because—because that meant that when Jared was playing a quick match of Soul Calibur in his trailer, in the trailer next door Jensen was spreading his legs, getting his fingers wet, pushing—in—

A groan, two—Jeff, lining up, shoving inside. It’s fast, and Jensen’s rocked up against the table with the force. "God," Jeff says, and gets his hands around Jensen’s bare hips. "You’re perfect."

"So I’ve heard," Jensen says, and braces his hands better, backs up, makes the angle better. His mouth opens, his back arching. "Ah—Jeff, come on—"

Jeff obeys. They always fuck hard, after all the teasing—no slow corkscrewing thrusts, no pausing. Every time Jared’s seen, the same. Jensen likes it, shoves back into it, wants it deep, fast, and his dick’s heavy and slapping against his thigh now, his shoulderblades popped out from how he’s bracing against the table, giving as good as he’s getting against the force of Jeff’s hips. Jeff holds him tight, rams him strong and good and steady, and Jared—he’s fucked a girlfriend in the ass, a few times, but they’ve always been doing him a favor and he’s given up on it because they clearly didn’t love it, and so—he has an idea of what it’s like, but he’s never had that. Never someone like Jensen, who clearly loves it, hard and flushed, throwing his head back at how good it feels, wanting it bad enough that he’s lubing himself up on a break and fucking at work—

"Jesus," Jeff spits, "for fuck’s sake, Jen, I’m—" and shit, he’s close already—Jensen groans, goes down to his elbows on the table, and Jeff grips him tighter, shoves into him even harder, faster, chasing it, and Jared watches Jensen’s face the whole time and sees the tight turned-on ripple of pleasure when Jeff shoves up into him and groans, flexing, dumping inside him. Fuck’s sake is right—Jeff shoves in again, reflex, and Jensen’s mouth falls open, like it’s the hottest thing that’s happened to him in years.

Jeff folds over for a few seconds, forehead against Jensen’s back. "Lord in heaven," he mumbles, and Jensen laughs breathlessly. Jeff pulls out slow, makes Jensen shudder—says, quiet, "Creamed you up, sweetheart," and Jensen’s face spasms, and Jeff smiles like he knows—and then he spins Jensen around by the hips, kisses him on the mouth, and sinks down to his knees. Jared can see just enough above the corner of the pool table to see Jeff suck Jensen’s dick down at the same time that he burrows three fingers right into his open wet ass—and Jensen shoves his knuckles into his mouth, half-shouts fuck around them anyway, and it’s not long then, a handful of seconds with Jeff clearly working magic and Jensen caught between his mouth and his hand, before Jensen grips Jeff’s shoulder and goes stiff and comes nearly silently, aside from his heaving breath.

Jeff swallows. Jared breathes shaky, against wood. He never saw that before. Jeff swallows, and keeps rocking his fingers into Jensen’s ass even when he pulls back and let his dick fall wet and heavy from his mouth. "How was that, sweetheart?" he says, smiling and smug, and Jensen shakes his head, laughs, soft and shaky. His shoulders gleam with sweat in the dim light.

Jared’s hard enough that he feels like he’s going to pierce a hole through Sam’s jeans. He’s got to get out of here, got to find a quiet place to jerk off with this new image fresh and hot behind his eyes. Jeff finally drags his fingers out, pats Jensen’s ass. "That’s a wrap, champ," he says, hearty as a little league coach. He stands up, does up his jeans. When he looks up from that his head turns, and he looks Jared directly in the eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/619926661503287296/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-scgemini)


	5. The Expanse: Amos/Alex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Expanse: Amos/Alex. Rated M; season 1, panty kink, semi-drunk decision making, non-established relationship.

It starts with them getting drunk. Well. No. Alex tries to be honest with himself. It starts with Holden, being an absolute dumbshit, and logging that distress call, and getting their whole crew killed and sending them off on this damn-fool goosechase across the solar system.

"If that’s how far you’re going back," Amos says, "then you should blame whoever attacked the ship in the first place."

"Oh, I do," Alex says. He slumps further into the booth, gets his boots braced on the opposite side. Amos looks at his feet, looks back up with raised eyebrows. "I blame everybody. Mars for shooting us up. The United Nations for starting the cold war. You."

"What did I do?" Amos says.

"I’m sure you’ll think of something." Amos stares at him, that flat calm stare that usually precedes some kind of ass-whooping, but Alex shrugs him off, looks at his glass. Empty. He puts two and two together. "I’m drunk."

"You’re not that drunk." Amos nods at a guy practically falling asleep against the high-top next to their booth. "He’s drunk. And he’s going to get mugged by—" he nods just behind Alex’s field of vision "—that chick. Probably in the next fifteen minutes."

Alex could look but it seems like a lot of work. "You’re the expert, huh," he says, and Amos shrugs. "You know, we spent—how many months, on the Canterbury? Working together. And I don’t think I learned two things about you, and now I know all sorts. Grew up in a brothel. Kind to whores. Who knew."

Amos finishes his beer, places it down on the table very precisely back into the ring of condensation it made. "Whores are good people," he says, and it’s in that Amos way where Alex knows if you disagree you might get a punch that rocks your head. "You should be kind to good people."

"That what you should do," Alex says, and he kinda means to say it as a question but he loses it, halfway. He scrunches his eyes closed, shakes his head. He’s not that drunk but he is fuzzy, and talking about his wife earlier—he pushes off the edge of Amos’s seat, struggles upright. They should probably go back—but then no. They’re mad at Holden. They should—get some sleep. But then— "I don’t want to sleep." He opens his eyes, and Amos is looking at him. Looks thoughtful.

"Me either," Amos says. Another whore brushes up near them—a woman this time, hair some violent unnatural shade of red. Thin, like Belters are, and a watchful look in her eye. She smiles, inviting, and Amos looks at Alex for a few more seconds before he tips his head up at her. "Hey. We’re not buying, but we’re gonna want a private room. You guys got an entertainment suite?"

*

Suite means, in this case, a lounge with not enough light, and couches clearly built with sex in mind, and storage at the back with things Alex isn’t sure he wants to picture. "This standard?" he says, holding onto a pole that goes floor-to-ceiling with a crooked arm, and Amos gives him another look.

"Have you seriously never been in a whorehouse?" Amos says. He slides his hand over the back of one of the couches, inspecting. Professional, Alex guesses. "Been long enough, being on the Canterbury. I’m sure your wife wouldn’t mind."

"Asshole," Alex says. Amos shrugs. It does hit, somewhere in his chest. Dulled a little, by time, and booze, and being honest earlier at the bar. His wife. It has been a long time, and he wonders. She might’ve moved on. He hopes she has. He takes a few gulps of the synthetic rum, feels nothing but warm. The music from downstairs thumps up through the floor, bassy vibration coming up through his boots. "What about you, then? If you’re so happy about it. You pay for a warm bed, whenever we’re in port?"

"Not usually." Calm, flat. Alex shakes his head. How’s the bastard always so calm. Even when he’s laying people out. Amos goes to the back of the room, red light flashing off the dull of his jumpsuit, opens up the storage. He turns a grin back on Alex. "So you’re new to this kind of thing? Want to see?"

Alex lets go of the pole, slumps down to the couch beside it. "See what," he says, wondering more what Amos might possibly find interesting in here, and he drops his drink in the next second when a coil of plastic’s thrown his way. He cusses, laments the rum. "Asshole!" he says, again, and scrubs at the wet stain on his leg, and shoves at the plastic with his other hand. No—not plastic, some kind of—synthetic, and it uncoils and it’s— "Is that a whip?" he says.

"Got a cat, if you’d rather," Amos says, cheerful, and waves over his head—lord-o-mercy, a cat o’nine, like this is a pirate ship in a story. Amos drops it, hums. Sounds impressed as he says, "They’re pretty stocked." A dildo, long and red—that, Alex knows, from gifting one to his wife first time he was going to take a long haul. She didn’t laugh. Amos pulls out a gag, then, and then a—corset? "This is a good establishment," Amos says. "Guess Fred Johnson lets them do good work. Good to know."

Alex is staring at the dildo dropped onto the thin rug when Amos stands up. Something white, subtly shining, in his hand. "How’s this proof of good work, again?" he says.

Amos looks at him like he’s simple. "They can afford this stuff," he says, gesturing at the toy closet. "Means they’re not getting shaken down for bribes. Means they can treat their people right. My place—that first place, anyway—wasn’t like that."

Alex blinks, tries to focus. Something yawning there, in the darkness behind that sentence. The first place. He grew up, Alex remembers, in places like these, and he sits up, ignores the way his head sways. Amos is sitting on the couch on the other side of the room, unlacing his boots. "Hey," Alex says, trying. "If—I mean, it’s not my business. If you want to talk."

Boots off, standing up. Amos frowns at him. "Why would I want to talk," he says, and unzips his jumpsuit, and it drops lazy around his hips—and then off—and below he’s got on—a tee, sweaty cotton, and—nothing else, and Alex’s caught, staring. Amos shrugs out of the tee in a roll of muscle, stands there bare in the red light, and then turns and steps into—white—what he took out of the closet, oh, they’re—panties, soft and impractical, things Mars never bothered with, things Alex has only seen in seedy porno vids. Amos slides them on with every apparent comfort, hiding away his big dick and his nuts, and he slips his fingers along the seams and waistband, looking down. Looking pleased. "Good fit," he says, smiling. "Man. This takes me back."

Alex stares. It’s rude and there’s no damned way he could help it. Amos is built like an anatomy model, cut and strong, his pecs swelling and his abs tight. His ass, full and high and rising in those panties like something you only dream about, on lonely nights. "Back where?" Alex says, but Amos comes closer, utterly comfortable, and looks down at him on his couch. Alex swallows, even if his mouth’s abruptly dry. He wishes he had another drink.

"I know you’re not into the whole whore thing," Amos says, matter-of-fact. He props his fists on his hips. This close it’s hard to look anywhere that’s not—at all of that. "We should fuck."

Alex stares up at him. "What brings you to that conclusion?"

"You saying you don’t want to?" Amos says, and gets a fist into the open v of Alex’s uniform and drags him up to his feet in a sheer haul of muscle, strong as strong. Alex stumbles, fetches up against Amos’s bulk, and Amos—is easy, with him. A broad hand on his waist, another on his shoulder, keeping him steady. A plain calm look, right in the eyes. "I’m good at this. You’re hot. We need to blow off steam and we’ve got the night to kill. I haven’t fucked in a while. And—" he slides his hand up Alex’s shoulder, grips the side of his neck. Looks back and forth between his eyes. "I grew up in a place like this. I know."

This close, Amos smells like—sweat. Like the whiskey and beer he was drinking, earlier. Like—something soft. Alex looks down, sees the shape of him. Big dick, and heavy nuts, and the swell of them inside the panties. "Why?" he says, trusting Amos will know what he means in that way that Amos just seems to—cut through any bullshit. Get to the heart of the matter.

"I grew up in a place like this," Amos says, softer, and he takes Alex’s hand in his bigger one and drags his fingers down the cut of Amos’s abs, down to the low curve of his stomach, down to the satiny-soft fabric—slick, and rich, and Alex’s hand shifts like it’s on autopilot and curves down, holding the swell of Amos’s nuts in his palm, curving back, feeling the sweetness there. Swelling, in his hand, and he tips his head down, his forehead against Amos’s collarbone, squeezes gentle and feels the slick of the satin warm and tight against his hand. Hell if it ain’t the sweetest, tensest thing. He feels like a line of heat’s been spooled between the base of his neck and his own nuts, snagging him there like a caught thing. All that muscle, and strength, and the panties cutting right across it but not changing a single thing about how Amos could kill him right now, with a hand on his neck. He breathes shaky against Amos’s chest. Maybe he does know. What men want, in a place like this.

"I like to fuck," Amos says, quiet. He squeezes the back of Alex’s neck, soft. "But you can fuck me if you want. Done it a bunch. I don’t mind either way."

Alex slides his fingers, hooks under the seam. Feels the wiry curl of pubes, the softer skin. His mouth works, wanting to taste it. "Either way," he says, and lifts his chin. Amos is watching him, calmer than calm. "You leave this on. You hear?"

Amos smiles at him. A beat of quiet. "I hear," he says, easy, and then in a surge of muscle he bears Alex back onto the couch, and Alex gives himself up to better things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/620033463696965632/in-support-of-black-lives-matter)


	6. FFVII: Cloud/Sephiroth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final Fantasy VII: Cloud/Sephiroth. Rated M; memory issues, dubious consent, body horror implied.

A grip on his shoulder, a breath at his ear. A hand, gloved, sliding up his throat, tipping up his chin, and he sees there not the sky or the grim darkness of the plate but a stone ceiling, and he breathes up at the stone and feels—nothing, and then terror, and then the thick strangeness of hands inside him—and then he’s laying there in his bed, or at least the bed he has been given, and it’s the not-yet-familiar metal of the repurposed shipping containers of the apartments, and he breathes in, and it smells like—nothing. Nothing. He flexes his hands against the mattress. Assures himself: he is alone. An apartment, to himself, and the night spread out cold and empty around him. It’s okay. It’s safe.

Cloud returns to the beginning.

Tifa smiles at him. She’s cautious, careful. She doesn’t see what Cloud sees and that’s okay, because she’s been through a lot but she’s—normal. Sweet. Tough as nails, too, and she could break Cloud’s arm if she punched him too hard in her teasing. Far cry from the girl in the blue dress, the one he remembers from being a kid. Most popular girl in town and the prettiest too, and kind even though it would’ve been easy for her not to be kind. He wishes he’d known her better, back then. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened, like it did.

The beginning.

He curls on his side, in bed. The pauldron presses against his skin, biting in, but that feels—right. Better. Keeps him here when he could be somewhere else. The light over the mirror stays on and he finds himself with his eyes open, staring at the empty grey of the opposite wall. He’s static. Memory, battering. His hands curled empty and lax on the bed in front of him; his limbs heavy. The door opens, and there are boots on the floor. A weight, settling onto the bed, and a gloved hand on his shoulder. A whisper of long, soft hair against his bare arm, and it feels—comforting, and right, and he closes his eyes, and there’s a voice that says, soft, Cloud, and it’s—not Tifa. It’s not Tifa.

The beginning—

He doesn’t like dark spaces. Enclosed spaces. The apartment—he’s grateful for it but he doesn’t feel comfortable, there. He’d rather an impersonal army barracks, rows of stiff bunk-beds—or the double rooms they got, those who were SOLDIER—his head hurts, thinking about that—or anything, honestly, that wasn’t a cramped dark box. A coffin. A storage chamber. He can’t undress, there. He showers fast, in the little closet that serves as a shower—efficient, from military training, and faster still because—he needs his uniform, back. The boots, and the pauldron, and his gloves back on. He gets dressed so fast he’s breathing hard, when almost nothing is difficult enough anymore for him to breathe hard, and it doesn’t feel—okay, at all, until he can look at himself in the mirror, hair drying into its usual spiky mess, and see himself armored and whole and then—something, behind his shoulder—someone—and a hand, there, on his arm—

In the beginning—

It’s hard to remember. Cloud’s a good mercenary, because he’s good. He doesn’t need to brag about it. He’s strong, and he knows how to handle himself, and when Tifa asks about his skills he thinks about training, about enlisting, about—mako—and somehow when he tries to remember telling her about it his memory is white blank static. Like the TV stations at night, when Shinra’s propaganda goes quiet and all that’s left is empty signal. He handles little jobs for normal people, and they whisper behind him as he walks. Ex-SOLDIER, I heard. Deserter, I heard. Freak, I heard. They’re right, he guesses. The mako infusions. That’s not normal. It’s what makes them different from regular people. Makes them strong. He takes out a dozen feral mutant wolves, swarming up out of a weird cave in the back alley, and he’s frowning into the shadows there, wondering, when there’s—a hand, on his shoulder, and a mouth at his ear, and a deep voice, smiling and familiar, and it says, "Do you see yourself in them? An experiment, gone wrong?" He’s still breathing but utterly still, and the hand slides across his collarbone to his throat. Holds him, there, where it could snuff out his life in a second. A brush of lips against his ear. "The experiment isn’t over, Cloud." He breathes, and feels a brush of leather against his jaw, and then Tifa’s looking at him, puzzled, and he breathes in, and settles his sword into the metal sheath on his back. Nothing worth talking about. Nothing to remember.

He does remember, though, that—in the beginning—

A hand, at his throat, and a thumb pressing against the soft underside of his chin. Biting in. Pressure. His neck arched back and back and he stared up, at the stone ceiling, there in the basement. There were—tubes—and things that glowed, at the corners of his eyes, but he stared up and the things that happened to his body felt like they were happening to someone else. He thought that they happened to someone else. There was a hand, at his throat, and then another against his cheek, and silk-soft hair brushed his temple and a voice whispered, so soft and close it was like it was inside his head: you’re weak, Cloud, but you will be strong. We’ll be together, you and I. A whole world of our own, waiting.

In a trapped close space in the dark he remembers. The beginning. Things that glowed, and things that hurt. Hands on him, and the things they did. Tifa walks beside him in the daylight and makes a joke—something about how he’ll have to sing to Marlene, and why?—but he takes a step and is there, in the dark, in the room with the stone all around, and he’s naked and shuddering and then his hands are taken in two gloved hands—bigger than his, stronger than his, and he looks up and up and there’s the glow, that unending and impossible glow, and Sephiroth smiles at him, bends close, says with his hair brushing Cloud’s bare shoulder and his lips soft against Cloud’s ear they’ve made you, just for me—a perfect vessel for the world I’ll engender, and he cups the back of Cloud’s neck in his hand and slips his other hand to Cloud’s stomach, leather fingers biting in there, and Cloud breathes and thinks, no—and then in the next step he’s back in the daylight, in the slums, in Sector 7, and Tifa says, "Hey, you’ve been kind of quiet—time to take a break?"

Cloud thinks of the box of the room. The mirror, and the things over his shoulder. His bed, where he’s not alone. "Sure," he says, easy. "That’s one of the rules, right?"

Tifa smiles. "Right," she says, and turns toward her apartment, and Cloud feels a heavy hand land on his shoulder, and opens his own apartment door, and closes himself again into the dark. He closes his eyes. A smile brushes against his skin, like a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/619972799793152000/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-doilycoffin)


	7. SPN: dark wincest, s3 dubcon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated E; season 3, first time, dubious consent, one-sided pining, angst.

Dean’s sitting on the edge of his bed in the motel room, freaking out, when Sam finally comes back. "Thank god," he says, his heart folding over in his chest, and then, pissed off, "Where the hell have you been?"

One in the morning, and it’s not like they’re not awake then half the time but Dean’s not supposed to wake up to an empty queen, to the Impala gone, to Sam’s backpack disappeared from the room. Bad enough that today was as shitty as it was, with Callie dying and her dad miserable—ending it with Sam disappeared, again, like Sam’s always goddamn disappearing—

But he’s here, and something under Dean’s hammering heart relaxes, if only by half an inch. "Where were you?" Dean says, while Sam’s dropping his bag on the ground, throwing his keys onto the table. Clumsy, rough, and Dean frowns. "Sammy."

"It’s fucking Sam," he gets back, pissed-off, and he blinks, sits up straighter.

Sam—okay. He hasn’t been having the easiest time. Dean knows that, he’s not a total asshole. He’s gonna be gone soon and Sam’s pissed about it. "Went out for a good time, huh?" he says. Trying to keep it light. "Shoulda woken me up, man, we could’ve had a few rounds for old times’ sake."

Sam snorts. He’s just standing there, by the table, his hair mussed up like he’s been dragging his hands through it, his shoulders high and tense inside his jacket. "Old times’ sake," he mutters, and when he looks up—he’s not drunk, but he’s had a few for sure. His eyes bright, in the lamplight, and his edge of his jaw furious. "Yeah. ‘Cause you’re leaving, right? You’re bailing out. One last good time before there’s no more time at all. Right, Dean?"

Okay. This again. It gongs inside his empty chest, where he’s felt hollow for nearly six months, but he puts on a smile and doesn’t give a shit how bitchy it looks. "That’s right, Sam," he says, and stands up. "Hey, next time you go out for a pity fest, maybe don’t wake me up, huh?"

Mean, and he doesn’t care. Sam’s face flinches into some new expression and Dean turns away. A shower, maybe. Something to escape to, and if he’s lucky by the time he gets out Sam will be curled in that usual resentful ball in the other bed, and they’ll put it behind them in the morning, and—

He’s nearly to the bathroom when he’s caught. Sam shoves him—shoves him—and Dean crashes up against the slice of wall by the bathroom door, his forearm barely up to keep his nose from getting crushed. "What the hell," he gets out, and when he turns Sam’s right there, shoving his chest so his back hits the wall instead, and Sam says, "Like it’s all a joke, right? Like it doesn’t matter? Like we should all just let it go? Right. Like you could let it go. Like you ever let anything go."

He’s—really angry. His hands in fists. Dean’s in boxers and bare feet and Sam’s got five, six inches on him like this. He shrugs, spreads out his hands. "Don’t know what you’re talking about," he says. Flat. Faking calm, but Dean’s always believed in fake it ‘til you make it.

Sam doesn’t buy it. He stands up straighter, looks down at Dean. His mouth twists, and Dean’s not—usually on the other side of that expression. Sam says, "You should’ve let me die," and all the air goes out of Dean’s body. Sam shakes his head. "But you couldn’t, could you. Couldn’t let it go."

"You’re my brother," Dean says. Automatic. True.

He gets another look, for that. Sam gets a fist on his chest, knuckles digging in, and presses Dean back against the wall. "Yeah, I am," he says, like a threat. "And I heard I’m something more. To you. That right, Dean?"

Dean goes still. He looks up into Sam’s eyes and sees—he doesn’t know. He doesn’t recognize Sam, like this.

"I thought—" Sam shakes his head. Laughs. It sounds like an unholy thing. Dean shudders and Sam looks him in the eye. "You always looked out for me. Right? That was the thing I always could—and then she told me. Why. You don’t want to just be my brother. Do you."

Sam’s face. Angry, intense, but like he’s hoping that what he knows isn’t true. Dean breathes. Doesn’t know how to deny it. Who told him? Who knew?

Sam looks back and forth between his eyes. "Fuck," he says, helpless. Crushes his knuckles into Dean’s chest—punches him, a short tight sock to the pec, more emotion than force. "Fuck, I thought—"

There’s nothing Dean can say. "It doesn’t matter," he tries, like that means anything. He touches Sam’s wrist, aching. "Sammy. I swear, I wouldn’t do—"

"What, you wouldn’t do anything?" Sam says. He rolls his eyes at the ceiling, huffs. Smiles, bitter. "You already did. You sold your soul, Dean, and you’re going to go to hell, because you wanted me to suck your dick. And you tell _me_ to let it go."

He throbs, inside. God. Sam. "It wasn’t like that," he says, after a second. Sam levels a stare at him. Dean swallows. "Sam."

"It wasn’t," Sam says. He’s already close—he crowds in, closer, and Dean flinches but he’s already ass-and-shoulders to the wall and his bones can’t dig back any further. Sam looks down at him, carved misery, and drops his fist and gets his hand on Dean’s dick—cups him tight, through the boxers, and Dean—can’t help it, he seizes still, and arches. Pressure, firm, and Sam’s hand so warm, and Sam—there, like he’d dreamed about, and Sam’s breath is hot with booze in his face and Sam grimaces, like he’s been shot or stabbed, says, "Fuck," and then squeezes again and says, grim, "Okay, then—Dean, okay—"

Dean’s grabbed—shoved—shoved around, against the wall, and he’s pressed flat, his chest crushed in so his amulet’s digging hard into his flesh, the tiny metal horns biting in. "Sammy," he tries, and Sam crushes in behind him, blankets him shoulders to hips. "What—stop it, you’re acting crazy."

"Crazy?" Sam laughs at him again, high and nasty. He’s bent in close. "Crazy, like, being so hot for your little brother you send yourself to eternal torture? Making him live with that? Making it so—every time he wakes up, he thinks—"

Misery, there. Dean turns his head, tries to look, but there’s a big hand, on the back of his neck, and he’s pinned. "I’ll give you what you wanted," Sam says, soft, and crushes closer. His hips pinned against Dean’s ass—jesus. Dean’s too freaked to be hard but there’s a weird nasty pressure building up in his gut anyway.

"Sam," he says, but Sam’s not listening. Fingers scrabble up the edge of his t-shirt, find the waistband of his boxers, rip downward—and he’s not in the right position and Sam whispers, miserable-sounding, fuck—fuck, Dean—and Dean presses his temple against the wall and helps, shoves, his stomach tilting like he’s on the Viper, something rattling and tense taking over his bones. Sam pauses, and then curses again, kicks at Dean’s ankle, and Dean spreads as much as he can with his boxers caught around his thighs and pushes his ass back, panting against the wall. Glad, then, of the mostly-dark, the one lamp somewhere behind him—that he can’t see Sam’s face—and he hears Sam spit in his hand and knows then that—either Sam hasn’t done this or Sam has and knows how much it’ll hurt, and he closes his eyes and braces his forearms against the wall and pushes back, and it’s—fuck—the first time he feels Sam’s dick is the thick slap of it off-center, not-slick-enough, bullying, and he arches his back and scrunches his eyes shut and feels that first shoving tense push—"Fuck," Sam says again—and he’s too tight, and Sam’s too mad, and Dean buries his face in the crook of one elbow and wets two fingers with his mouth and reaches back, past the fat shove of Sam’s dick, rubs some little slickness against his asshole and then grabs the pole of Sam’s dick and helps, guiding, keeping it in place while it forces him open—and ah christ christ son of a bitch it’s big, it hurts, years since he’s done this and he forgot how much it could hurt and there’s not enough wet and he’s gonna bleed he’s gonna bleed and the whole time Sam’s dragging into him, too much friction, splitting something deep, fuck.

"Fuck," Sam says. Only word he knows. Dean pants against the wall. Crushed up close against it, his body trying to get away. Sam grips his hip. "Fuck, you’re tight."

"No shit," Dean says, shaky, and Sam shifts, his chest covering Dean’s back. Like a wall, to match the wall he’s pressed against. Trapped. Fuck, it hurts, it hurts, and it’ll only get better if—"Move," he says, aching, "c’mon, please move—"

Sam’s hips curl. His dick saws in deeper, drags out an inch or two. Dean bites his own forearm. "Shut up," Sam says, but soft, and holds Dean’s shoulder underhand. Moves in him again, cautious, and Dean moans involuntarily. It hurts so much more than it feels like anything else, but it’s—it’s Sam. Sam.

He starts a rhythm. Awkward, hunching. His breath against the side of Dean’s neck, his fingers digging in. Dean spreads his legs, feels dizzy. The world narrows, spirals, around the hot slicing drag inside, and Sam’s hand dug into his hip. He’s still not hard but that feels distant—there’s pressure inside, and Sam’s skin against his, and the pain’s evened out to a dull suffusing thing that spreads through his body, ebbing and rising with his blood, his breath, his hand reaching back and holding Sam’s hip. Urging him deeper, faster. Sam presses his mouth against Dean’s hair, panting there. Obeys, snapping in faster, and it’s a—pummeling, like taking a beating, like training, like how when they’d wrestle as teenagers Sam started to win, like how he’d get Dean in the ribs and in the gut and then would kneel straddling his ribs and say say uncle, Dean, and Dean would say aunt, panting, and Sam would roll his eyes and push Dean’s face away before he stood up, and Dean would lay there, bruised, but proud, because Sam was strong—Sam was smart—Sam was going to get whatever he wanted out of life, and Dean couldn’t be more proud of anything besides that.

"Oh, god," Sam mutters, and drags Dean half a foot backwards. He’s slamming in harder, greedier, and Dean knows that, knows what that means. He re-braces, his elbow up against the wall, and Sam’s still leaning over him, panting and shoving in and, god, after all this it does feel—good, awful and painful but good—and Dean reaches back, gets his hand in Sam’s hair, holds him close, says, "c’mon, Sammy—c’mon—give it up, c’mon, you can do it—please—"

"Shut up," Sam says, breathless, but he loops an arm around Dean’s waist and crams up inside him another half-dozen times and then goes stiff, his nuts slapping hard against Dean’s ass, his thighs shaking against Dean’s thighs. Dean can’t feel it inside but wishes he could. Occurs to him only then that Sam didn’t rubber up. He curls his fingers in Sam’s hair, holding him there, and Sam turns his face so that his lips brush Dean’s neck and crams his dick in tighter, deeper. Unloading, and with it he seems to have used up all his violence. He kisses Dean’s neck, soft. Lets his lips drag along Dean’s sweaty skin. His arm unbands and he drags a hand over Dean’s belly. Squeezes his hips. Soft again.

"Sam," Dean says. He’s throbbing. His whole body.

A stilling. Sam breathes against his skin. He pulls his dick out—not fast, but Dean feels every inch anyway, and can’t help the sound he makes when he’s empty. There’s an immediate spill, against the inside of his thigh. Sam broke him open. He tries to stand upright but his thighs ache, and he leans against the wall with his hands flat, trying to drag up the strength to turn around. To figure out something to say.

"God," is what Sam says, and—and then there’s a whirl of motion and Sam goes into the bathroom, right next to them, and shuts the door. Dean hears the lock click. Then a thump, like something punched or thrown, and then water rushing on. The shower. Like it’s Sam who needs the shower.

Dean arches his back, careful, trying to stretch. It’s not painful to walk, but it’s painful—what feels like everywhere else. He settles careful on the edge of his bed and then tips backward, gets his weight off his ass. Tissues on the nightstand: he plucks out a handful and reaches down, wipes up. Sam’s got a huge load, he thinks, and the thought should cause hysteria but it doesn’t. He just cleans up the spill, mechanical. The tissues are only a little red. Could be worse. Has been, though not in—years. He thought he’d left this kind of thing behind.

He drags his boxers back up. His balls are heavy and, after the shock of the pain, the sensation of it heats, inside his bones. His dick fills. If he wanted he could jerk off, and Sam probably wouldn’t be the wiser. Hiding in the shower like he is. He settles his hand on his stomach, looks up at the ceiling. He wonders how many places he’s got bruises. How long they’ll stay. If Sam will notice them, in the days and weeks to come. If he’ll say anything, if he does. Dean shudders, head to toe, and thinks unbidden that he can jerk off to this for the rest of his life. Rest of his life. He laughs, and it sounds—nasty, in the empty room. As nasty as Sam’s did.

He stretches out, and holds his amulet in his other hand. He’s not going to sleep again, tonight. Might as well settle in.

An hour later, the shower’s still running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/620062668828672000/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-silver9mm)


	8. Hannibal: Hannibal/Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal: Hannibal/Will. Rated M; post-canon, pining, mild blood.

It’s a different life, after the fall. Quieter. Still. The sun rises and spills over the earth like a slow pale tide, ebbing against the house where Will watches, waiting.

Canada. Not an exotic escape, like before. Woods and rivers. Snow, most of the time, and the summer a relief of blooming life when it comes. The house is on a patch of land that used to be farmed and that has gone wild in disuse, and around it there are stands of new trees struggling up, and flowers Will doesn’t recognize that bloom in spring, and birds that call in the morning. Like home, or at least the home that was. This is home, now. It has to be.

Summer now, with the days thick with sunlight. He fishes, in the river that curves by, a mile from the house. The dog waits on the shore, watching the birds. He breathes with the rhythm of the water and it’s peaceful—until it’s not. A tug—the line, caught—a salmon, desperate, and Will hauls in the line, gets it in his hands. Massive, struggling, its muscle working and terrified under the thin layer of skin. When he kills it he’s quick, and it lays still in his arms. He lays it on the rocks by the shore. The dog is warned off with a look. A thing that was alive, now dead. He doesn’t mind anymore that he finds it beautiful.

He stays by the river for another hour, sitting. He pets the dog behind the ears. Tiny ecstasy. The river flows east and the woods are full of birds. Life, soaring. He wishes he could enjoy it.

Dusk, or near to it, when he starts the walk home. The dog follows, smelling the fish in his bag. He’ll cook it tonight, he guesses, and it will taste like—nothing. He’s been trying to learn to cook properly, in hopes that spices and herbs and technique will do the trick, but everything he eats is reduced in his mouth to—protein, carbohydrate. Calories. Necessary to sustain life but nothing to care about. He can’t go to a psychiatrist anymore, can’t risk it, but he’s wondered. Is it something that’s changed in his brain chemistry, after the fall? When he woke up alone in a hospital bed with a new name, did the doctors know that this essential human thing in him was lost? Could it be fixed? Does he want it to be?

A mile, walked slowly. Dusk falling in a muffling blanket over the woods. He opens the gate to the property and the dog rushes home, eager for the kibble waiting, the guts of the fish it’ll get as a treat, and Will walks slower up the path between the weeds, because after all, what’s waiting for him.

"Will."

He looks up.

Hannibal, standing on his porch. Almost unrecognizable—impossible—until he’s not. His hair has fallen over his forehead, and he’s not in a suit but in a thin sweater, sleeves pushed up at the forearms—jeans and boots—and there’s a bag beside him. He watches Will from the shadow under the porch and then takes the two steps down, offering his palm for the dog to snuffle into, never taking his eyes away. In the dusklight Will can see his expression in perfect clarity.

"Where have you been?" he asks.

A year. A year, here in this house that he was told was his. He pretended to amnesia and the doctors were useful, supplied him with his new name and his fake job and his keys and his phone, which had two contacts in it—his, with an address that led him here, and another under the name _William Blake_ with a phone number, which he never called. If Hannibal wanted to speak to him—

But Hannibal’s here, now. "I had to take care of things," he says. His voice. Rich as the dusk. The dog abandons him, thoroughly sniffed, and wanders off into the grounds to chase something else. Hannibal folds his hands in front of himself, neat. "Loose ends."

Matter-of-fact and not an apology. Will nods, looks away into the shadowed trees. He wonders how many of those loose ends were tied up with murder. It’s a relief, in a way, to not care. "One last loose end to tie up, then, I suppose," he says, and lets his bag and rod fall on the path.

Hannibal glances at the mess. Looks up again. "I would rather not," he says. "If I do not have to."

For the first time in a year, Will feels—surprise. An uncertainty. "I thought—" he says, and closes his mouth. He reviews, recatalogues. For the first time in a year he closes his eyes and there on the path among the wild-grown things he thinks—of a fall, of the wind rushing. The ocean, the painful crash. Blood, spilling everywhere, and what it must’ve taken to make sure he didn’t die there on the rocks, and afterward Hannibal thinking not of storing him away to be dealt with later but of—

"Safekeeping," he says. He feels it. Deep in his chest. A space, tender as a bruise. He opens his eyes and Hannibal’s focus on him is absolute. It should be terrifying and isn’t. Never will be, ever again. "You could’ve picked somewhere with delivery."

A tiny upturn of his mouth—Hannibal, smiling at him. It floods through Will like drowning did. "Why order delivery when you have me as a cook?" he says, light, and Will steps forward almost blind and Hannibal cups his face, leans down over him, thumbs tracing his cheekbones in sweet symmetry—and he says, soft, "You will have me, won’t you, Will?" and Will nods helplessly, and Hannibal leans down and presses their mouths together.

Soft, precise. The world condenses into a space of breath. Will parts his lips and Hannibal tilts his head further back, pressing inside—brush of tongue and a taste of—of nothing, and Will feels a surge of heat behind his eyes. It should be salt, and skin, and the infinitesimal differences in body chemistry that would make it Hannibal’s kiss and no one else’s. He pulls back—half a breath—and Hannibal cups the back of his head, holds him in place. When he looks his face is being searched, every part of him scraped open and bare—like he hasn’t laid himself like an offering, like he hasn’t transfigured at an atomic level to be the man Hannibal made him—and Hannibal says, "Oh, Will," with an intense and mortifying compassion—and then Hannibal leans in, and bites him.

Will flinches, is caught. Grabs into Hannibal’s shirt, feels the pressure increase. His bottom lip between Hannibal’s teeth, and Hannibal bites harder, and harder, and Will’s muscles spasm involuntarily—and when the blood bursts forth he makes a strange sound he can hardly hear, but Hannibal groans, and lets go, and when he lifts his head again his mouth is a dark red, his teeth stained.

Will’s panting. He touches his lip. Not bitten through, but cut on both sides, and he looks at the blood on his fingers and then slides his tongue over the wounds inside. Salt, is the first thing he tastes. Salt, and bitter metal. Cloying, almost—too intense, and vivid, and immediately his mouth feels coated, his tongue flinching from the flavor. He looks at his fingers, and licks them clean, and his own skin is—"Is this what it’s like for you?" he says, and looks up.

Hannibal smiles at him, quietly. "When it matters," he says, his hands still on Will’s skin and his face a promise, and Will leans up and kisses Hannibal and makes his blood his answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/620108995123953664/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-largoindminor)


	9. SPN: wincest, post-Michael with bodymods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated E; season 14, post-Michael possession, piercings, mild D/s.

Sam manages to look normal for about ten minutes after Dean disappears into his room. Mom’s put off easily—he has her check on Jack—and the hunters from the other world are trusting and easy to reassure. He gives them the update, about the monsters they might see, and the second they’ve turned around he’s out of the map room, heading back through the maze of hallways, his heart in his throat.

He’s here. Here. Sam can hardly stand it. In that horrible little warehouse it was all he could do not to pin Dean against the wall and get his mouth on him and just—do everything, everything they’d ever done, to try to crawl inside each other, to make it so they’d never be parted again. They weren’t alone, though, and Dean was—hurt. Flinching, when he lost his strength and sagged down to the floor, and his face a ravaged tired thing. Sam touched him, couldn’t help it, but it was safe there on his forearm and on his knee, and Dean closed his eyes. Let him.

Sam knocks once, at Dean’s door, but opens it without waiting. He can’t wait, anymore. Dean’s standing at the sink, the stupid vest off and the button-down thrown on the floor, and he looks at Sam and Sam kicks the door back closed, locks it, and then takes the two steps and gets Dean in his arms and kisses him, pushing him back against the sink with the force of it, desperate and fierce. Dean grabs him back, fists into his hair and his jacket—bites at his mouth, breathing heavy—flinches again, when Sam gathers him closer, and Sam grinds his forehead against Dean’s and lets their noses brush against each other, their mouths close. "Sorry," he says, but he’s not, and Dean knows it.

"Sorry," Dean echoes, and tips his head. He winds his hand into Sam’s jacket. "I’m the one—"

"I don’t care." Dean’s mouth firms, and he pulls back an inch, but Sam doesn’t let him go. He gets a hand on Dean’s jaw, tips it up. "Everything else can wait. Right?"

A beat. Dean’s ears are red, and his cheeks—he licks the corner of his mouth where it’s wet and looks to the side. "Sam, there’s—" He shakes his head. Something wrong. Sam lets his hand go light, lifts some of his weight away. Dean shifts, where he’s pressed back against the sink. "I—"

Sam’s attention’s caught by something else. "What’s that," he says, frowning, and catches Dean’s arm. The skin’s still soft, pale gold and freckled despite the months in a suit, but there’s—a scar, a strange raised thing, marring the flesh. He pushes his thumb over it and it’s clearly healed but Dean squeezes his eyes shut. "It hurts?"

"No," Dean says, brief, and licks his lips. Flushed still, miserable, and his head dips low for a second, two, before he reaches up and pulls the white undershirt off, over his head, and Sam’s mouth goes dry as he stares.

He should’ve noticed before, but he couldn’t feel it through his jacket and Dean’s face was all that mattered. Dean’s shoulders hunch, his hands tangled up in the undershirt he’s still holding. He’s—adorned. That’s all Sam can think to call it. His tattoo’s still there, pinned over his heart to match Sam’s, as it should be. The rest is new. Rings, pierced through his nipples, and a line of rings down his abdomen, seamless loops coming out of the skin where he’s always been strong but soft. Softer-looking now, in contrast against the metal. A fine chain, strung between the nipple rings and fed down in two lines through the loops on his stomach, and—further, past his belt where Sam can’t see. Symmetrical as a ritual.

"Does it hurt?" Sam says, careful. He thinks of Dean flinching, curled awkward in the passenger seat on the drive home. Dean shakes his head. He reaches out and gets his hands on Dean’s belt and Dean grabs his wrist, reflexive _no_. Sam stills immediately. "Dean?"

Dean breathes, shaky through his nose. "It’s—I haven’t seen it," he says, low. "I can feel it."

Sam traces his thumb up the soft skin of his belly, between the lines of the chains. "I don’t have to," he says, offering, and Dean looks at him and like always it’s the gentleness that makes him fold. He lets Sam’s wrist go, braces his hands back against the sink, and Sam’s allowed to unbuckle, to unbutton, to unzip. He’s careful, opening up the slacks, and Michael—ah, wore snug soft boxer-briefs in creamy white, and Sam’s careful to lift the waistband away as he tugs down, and there—

"Fuck," he says. Eloquent.

Dean looks down, and immediately covers his face. "Fuck," he says, too, and—god, that’s all there is to say.

The rings continue, down the low curve of Dean’s belly below his navel, down to an inch above the root of his dick. There, they’re taken over by a cock cage—metal rings, again, locking Dean’s dick into a small curve, tucked cruelly tight over the swell of his balls. The chain keeps going, parallel lines around the cage. Sam goes down to one knee, trying to see—if it’s part of the locking mechanism, or attached somewhere else—and sees then that the cage—keeps going, the loop around Dean’s balls part of a larger structure, and he touches careful there, sliding his fingers back, and looks up at Dean’s face as he shudders full body when Sam figures out that the cage is connected to a plug, filling up his ass, and the chains lock in there, keeping the whole thing tight.

"Why?" Sam says. It’s the only thing he can think, beyond—the too much that’s filling him up.

Dean shakes his head, drags his hands through his hair. He looks obscene, from where Sam’s looking up at him. Beautiful. Wrecked. "He—" Dean licks his lips again. He’s staring down at his dick again, strangled in its loops. "He told me that I’d—wasted his body. That I needed to be controlled."

His eyes are wild and he’s quivering, Sam realizes—fine shudders, quaking through the muscle. "He’s gone," Sam says, and Dean laughs, short and unhappy, and Sam stands up and holds Dean around the shoulders and says it again, again, and Dean says finally, frustrated, "You call this _gone?"_ and Sam says—"Okay. Okay. Let me help."

Dean shakes his head, eyes closed, but he nods too. He’s bruise-tired under the eyes, still blushing all over. Sam walks him over to the bed, settles him carefully on the edge. Memory foam or not, Dean jolts when he sits and Sam swallows, thinking about Dean’s ass held open. "Okay?" he says, and Dean says, "No, dumbass," but he lets Sam pull off the tangle of shoes and socks and slacks and briefs and then he’s naked, completely, in the soft light of the room, and Sam…

It’s not anything he thought he’d ever see, on his brother. Nothing he wanted. It’s strange and alien and it was done without Dean wanting it, and he doesn’t know—how they’re going to get rid of it. If Dean wants to get rid of it. He pushes at Dean’s knee, gets him to lay back, and spread out like that, trussed-up and offered like that—fuck. Yeah. It’s getting to Sam.

He spreads Dean’s knees, tries to ignore it. Gets his feet propped up and his thighs spread, so he can see. Alien, again, with his balls kept neat and tidy up against the root of his dick without Sam needing to hold them there. The chains frame his perineum and Sam slides his thumb down the space between, soft. Dean’s thighs clench. "Get the lead out, Sam," he says, strangled, and Sam slips his fingers down. The plug. A curved metal piece connected to the metal around his nuts, thick around as one of Sam’s fingers. Disappears into his asshole. Slim, when Sam knows Dean can take more. The chain connects to a loop there, tiny, and Sam realizes that—it’s all of one piece. Like Michael welded it, somehow. He’ll have to get tools to get Dean completely free. He licks his lips, thinking.

Sam touches the plug, feels the heat of it where it’s swallowed up. "It doesn’t hurt?" he says, glancing up Dean’s body. Dean has his face buried in the crook of his elbow, but he shakes his head. Sam pulls at the plug, careful, and Dean gasps—his thighs clench—and Sam sees the thicker base of it, pressed up inside. He wonders how long it is and his mouth waters at the thought. He looks at Dean again, and sees the flush sweeping down his chest, an arrow of pink. His dick’s soft, because it has to be, but Sam chews the inside of his cheek, a molten thought taking over his head.

He tugs at the plug again, enough that the base pulls at the pink ring of flesh, and then rocks it back inside. Dean curses, grabs at the blanket. Sam breathes open-mouthed, his own dick filling up inside his jeans. The way Dean’s can’t. He does again, pulls harder and sees how the chain pulls, up until there’s a tug at the rings on Dean’s nipples, and then pushes it back in with three fingers so that he can feel the ripple of Dean’s asshole, desperate to close and unable to. "Does it hurt?" he says again, different, and Dean’s hips rock down against his hand, and he looks down his body at Sam, his face bright red, his eyes wet. Sam covers the whole thing with his palm, leaning in. "Dean."

"It doesn’t hurt," Dean says, breathless, Sam crams his hand all the way up into the split of Dean’s ass and bends down to press a kiss just at the base of his dick, where the first ring starts, his lips brushing the lock he’ll have to pick.

Dean shudders and Sam breathes hot there, imagining. A vibrator, pressed hard against the metal loop on his taint—dragging the plug free, and making Dean ride him with his cock still locked up small and tight. Seeing how much he can make Dean leak. How much noise he’ll make, when Sam’s dug up inside him to the root and he’s got his teeth on the rings in his nipples, working them soft and relentless against his tongue.

"We’re gonna have to be quiet," he says. His dick throbs at the look on Dean’s face. "Bunker’s full. You’re going to have to be quiet. Can you?"

Dean grips Sam’s shoulder, bruising. "Try me," he says, breathy, and Sam surges up his body to kiss him. It’s going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/620131939141255168/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-omgbubblesomg)


	10. MCU: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange. Rated T; post-Civil War AU.

It’s a real busy month. The superfriends break out of supermax, with the help of a blond beefboy who flings frisbees at the security cameras and doesn’t care who sees his face; the UN goes ballistic and demands Tony help; Tony gets extremely, extremely drunk like he hasn’t in years and sends Ross a manip video of Tucker Maxx getting rawed by a donkey dressed as a colonel instead of responding; the superfriends crash back into America, and Natasha—traitor—lets them back in to the Avengers compound upstate; Tony, still drunk, decides to let them stay instead of incinerating the damn thing from space; Wanda gets kidnapped by a wizard; Tony and Steve have to go save her. Tony and _Steve_. No, Tony’s not bitter.

"I’m struggling to come up with a reason why I shouldn’t have my house nuke your house from orbit," Tony says. Steve gives him a bitchy look. Yeah, what else is new. He lifts his chin, looks at the wizard through his green glasses. Everything’s better in green. "Anything? Mister Wizard?"

Said wizard gives him an unimpressed look. Tony doesn’t know why. His facial hair is even more ridiculous than Tony’s, and Tony cultivates this shit. "Strange."

"Yes, you are," Tony says, and Steve sighs and cuts his hand through the air before Tony can continue.

"Doctor," he says, polite. Tony rolls his eyes. Wanda, in stasis halfway up to the skylight in this weird-ass mansion, pulsates in angry red, trapped in amber. "You have to understand that things were—different. The Avengers have no desire to go to war with the—Sanctum."

"The Sanctum has no desire to go to war with the Avengers," the wizard says—and, jesus, _what_ is his name? Blue eyes, good hair, cape that seems to float in magic wind. Fancy Bastard isn’t something that should go on a birth certificate. "However, you are harboring a magic user who could cause extreme damage to the innocent people of this plane if left unchecked."

Steve frowns. "Now, look—" he says, and the wizard’s eyebrow cocks and he waves a hand, and in the circle of amber that appears midair (how?) there’s a perfect 4k, 3D view of the deaths of innocents in Lagos, of the devastation of Johannesburg after the Hulk was enraged there, of a man with red light crawling up his neck and the terror filling his eyes before his neck snaps.

Above, Wanda’s silent fury goes quiet as the red dims. Steve looks constipated, which Tony can admit inside his own head actually means he looks grim and upset and heroic. The wizard looks between the two of them. "This is a problem. It would be wisest to transfer her to an alternate plane, or at least to have her abilities removed."

"They’re part of her," Steve says, immediately. Tony looks up. Hard to see, from down here, but he can see that Wanda’s eyes are closed, inside her amber prison, and her face—he looks away. "You can’t remove them without killing her."

"Well," the wizard says, and doesn’t look even remotely regretful—who _is_ this guy?—and Steve’s shoulders square up in that muscular way that presages a truly stupid fucking fight that’s about to ensue, and Tony opens his mouth without a single iota of a plan and says, "Wait a minute," and the wizard and Steve and Wanda all look at him, and oh, for fuck’s sake. That means—

*

Doctor Stephen Strange. Brilliant surgeon. Incredible asshole. Drama queen, and the worst kind of all because he pretends not to be. No one has that beard without wanting to cause drama. Tony would know. Unfortunately—Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, and Stephen Strange, super wizard, and Stephen Strange, taking over a wing of the compound, coming and going as he pleases in a whisk of amber light, and Stephen Strange, Tony’s lab companion for the foreseeable future.

He misses Bruce.

The compound isn’t comfy. The various wings are divided into factions. Steve and the superfriends, hiding out from the UN and all of the other dozens of countries that want to prosecute them, are on the east side where the sparring rooms are. Tony’s set up on the west side where the labs are, and he didn’t think to put a bedroom _in_ the lab because he thought this place would be all kumbaya, superhero summer camp, and figured maybe they’d actually want to talk to each other when they were all here. More fool him. He sleeps on the couch in the lab most days, when he sleeps at all, and it means he’s got a great view every time there’s a swirling mind-bending circle of amber light and all of a sudden there’s a fucking wizard in his house, ready to work with Wanda on how not to accidentally kill thousands of people.

This morning, for example. Morning? Tony drags a hand over his face, smears drool and engine grease. "Good morning, Mr. Stark," Strange says, and Tony mouths it back at him schoolyard style—what he assumes normal kids did in schoolyards—and Tony lets Friday speak the room into brightness, telling him the time and the weather and whether the world’s blown up, while he’s catnapped.

"How’s the scarlet terror?" Tony says, knuckling his eyes. Christ, this sucks. 69 degrees and he can’t even make a joke about it.

A pause. "Progressing," Strange says. He’s still wearing that stupidass cosplay outfit. Cape and all.

Tony squints at him, slumped back on the couch. "You know, if you were a real wizard, you’d magic me up some coffee."

Strange looks at him. He always looks stern. Like Tony’s failing some test. It’s tiring from the rest of the supercrew; it’s not better from some rando in a RenFaire uniform. Strange gestures, with his left hand, and unfurls the fist of his right at the lab table, which—abruptly becomes a coffee table, in that there’s a pot of steaming coffee and toast and what Tony thinks is—fucking lox?

"From that deli on 44th," Strange says, matter-of-fact. "You know, when I’m not a sorcerer I’m a doctor. In my medical opinion, you could look less like shit."

Tony staggers upright, fetches up against the table. His head gongs like a—like a fuckin’ gong. It’s too early for metaphor. He pours a cup of coffee and ignores that his hands are trembling. "In my layman opinion you can suck my dick," he says, friendly, and Strange rolls his eyes but he—he smiles, too, and he—doesn’t look like nearly so much of a dickhead when he smiles. Cape or no. Tony holds the cup (finest porcelain, like Tony has drunk coffee at Buckingham Palace in less-nice china than this) and squints, brain still offline, and Strange shakes his head and says, "Good luck, Tony," and whisks away to deal with their little magical terror, and leaves Tony to think of what the hell. Just—what the hell.

*

Turns out there’s a big difference between kinds of magic. And here was Tony, just thinking that physics were physics. "No, no," Strange says, impatiently. "There is of course the physics of our plane, which follow their own laws. Then, naturally, there is the magic of Asgard, brought forth from Yggdrasil the world-tree and the belief therein, which is the sort that Loki and Odin may perform. Then there is the magic of the Infinity Stones, which perform their own miracles, and of course _there_ is our problem with Miss Maximoff."

He’s drawing a chart in the air with his hands as he talks, marked out in amber light. Tony says, "Friday, take that down," and the house grabs the image of whatever magic Strange is doing and transmutes it into data, neatly transcribed in cells and manipulable forms for Tony to grab and hold and think about, and Tony grips Strange’s leatherette-and-cape shoulder and says, "Buddy, I could kiss you," and Strange rolls his eyes but his cape swirls up and pats Tony on the hand in a brush of woolly affection, and Tony doesn’t really think about that because he’s locked into the possibilities and sees a lot of sleepless nights ahead, but that’s okay. He’s got time to think about it, later.

*

Strange won’t give up much info about the rest of his little magic crew. Numbers, attitudes, location. "I am the representative on Earth," is all he’ll say, and—jeez-us, what a statement.

"I am the representative of the Avengers in Oneida County," Tony says, in exactly the same tone, and then pauses, flicking armor designs from one ephemeral bin to another. "Shit. Am I? Maybe it’s Steve. Okay. I am the deposed representative of the Avengers in—"

"You’re the one I’m talking to," Strange says. He’s still sitting in the antique armchair he magicked up for himself, sipping tea. Seriously. Like every single thing he does is for the hashtag-aesthetic. "Mr. Rogers is certainly impressive, but it’s you who has had every actionable idea on streamlining Ms. Maximoff’s abilities. Don’t undercut yourself."

Tony raises his eyebrows, lowers his hands. "How dare you," he says, lightly, even if his chest feels—some kind of way. "I have never, in my life, in my entire existence, undercut myself, and in fact I think I’m going to set the StarkTech legal team on you—Friday, call up Pepper, see if we can sue the entirety of the Sanctum Sanctorum and also magic itself, and throw David Bowie in there too—"

 _Yes, Mister Stark,_ Friday says from nowhere, lightly amused just like she should be—good girl—and Strange rolls his eyes. "Don’t bring Bowie into this," he says, mild, and Tony grins and Friday cues up Fame without even needing to be asked.

"Oh, _very_ good choice," Strange says, looking up at the ceiling, and Tony waves the armor out of existence and says, "Okay, Mister Wizard—dinner, and we’re talking Bowie and we’re talking King Crimson and we’re talking Yes, and you’re putting in an opinion about those star-and-moon pants Page used to wear, let’s go—" and Strange says, "First, they’re incredible; second, only if we’re getting Thai," and Tony—Tony could just—

*

A bad night. Tony lays on the couch in the lab and hugs a bottle of very good, very rare, very expensive scotch against his ribs, and doesn’t drink it, and wants to. Above he’s had Friday peel away the armor of the ceiling and the sky’s a patchwork quilt of stars. Enough sound baffling and he can’t hear whatever might be going on in the rest of the compound; if Steve and the others are training; if anyone’s even here, but him. It’s peaceful. It sucks.

A swirl of amber. "You look ridiculous."

"Yeah, well." Tony shrugs. "Sometimes you get sued by grieving parents for your technology being used in exactly the way you intended and you think, fuck, they sure have a point. And then you want a ham sandwich and no one will get you one. It’s tough."

He thinks he maybe sounded more bitter than he needed to. He maybe should’ve tried harder. He watches a satellite track across the sky, feels his body. Even now, when he breathes deep, there’s still a twinge where the reactor should be. He wishes sometimes—but it’s stupid. The reactor didn’t make him him. It wasn’t any more accountability than any other pain could’ve been.

There’s a sinking sensation, by his feet. Strange, sitting on the couch. "I could get you a ham sandwich," he says, quiet. "But I suspect it wouldn’t do the trick."

"Clever man, Doctor," Tony says, acid. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to be acid. He imagines—the armor—dissolving slowly, the facemask melting into a broken sizzle of empty gestures. He maybe should’ve had less to drink.

"We are making progress, Tony," Strange says. "Every day. Time… isn’t always on our side. But we do what we can. That’s all there is. What we can."

Tony stretches his legs out. His shins bump Strange’s back. He’s not wearing the whole ensemble—cape and leather and whatever the hell. He’s in a sweater, and jeans, and he looks like someone Tony can actually touch. Something that obeys the physics Tony understands. Something real.

He puts the bottle of scotch on the floor. "Maybe a ham sandwich wouldn’t hurt," he says, finally.

Strange—Stephen—touches his knee, lightly. He smiles at Tony, in the dark. "Mustard?" he says. "I can do whatever you want."

Tony breathes deep. Settles. He says, "And you better add a pickle, cheapskate," and feels Stephen squeeze his knee, and feels—well. Some kind of way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/620394729670115328/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-mystifiedgal)


	11. SPN: Dean/Bobby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Dean/Bobby. Rated M; Stanford era, injury, daddy issues.

John Winchester, Bobby thinks for the tenth—hundredth—thousandth time—is a real son-of-a-bitch.

"Come on, boy," he says, not trying all that hard to be nice, tugging. "This isn’t the place you’re gonna die."

"Feels like it," Dean says, gasping, and—well, he might have a point.

There’s blood all over the snow, soaking in black in the night, and there’s pale flesh all torn on his leg, and if that claw nicked the artery—but there’s no way of knowing that for sure, and there’s no sense in worrying over it if it can’t be changed. Bobby tears off a long strip of the kid’s shirt, winds it around quick at the top of the thigh for a field-dressing, just in case. Feels Dean shaking, from the shock, and who can blame him. Still. "No one ever survived hunting by being soft, princess," he says, and offers his hands to Dean. "No more laying around moaning about it. Up you get."

Dean tips his head back against the snow, panting into the dark, but then curls up, puts his hands in Bobby’s. They slick together from the blood but that’s okay—Bobby just grips harder, their bones grinding—and together they leverage Dean up out of the puddle he’s making, and Dean makes a soft incoherent sound and staggers forward, fetching up hard against Bobby’s chest. Bobby wraps an arm around his shoulders, feels him breathing hard against his throat and chest, his body quivering. "Sack up, kid," he says, but softer, and Dean grips into his jacket—more blood, and he’d liked this jacket—and leans into him harder for a second before he nods and pushes up, balancing on his one boot. Bobby grips his shoulder, nods back. "All right, then. Time to move."

"Yes, sir," Dean says, torn-up, and Bobby holds him up so they can stagger together.

This wasn’t his job. He’d sworn it off. John Winchester and his boys and all the terrible crap that came along with them. He’d nearly killed John, near-on a year ago, and it would’ve been _well_ deserved if he’d followed through. Bastard. The boys followed with John, though, of course—although it turned out that Sam hadn’t. Then, damn him, if John didn’t start sending his other boy out on hunts on his own, like hunting alone wasn’t a surefire way to get hurt or killed no matter how many years of miserable training had been crammed down the kid’s throat, and that meant that when Bobby was in the area just investigating, wondering if there was any truth to what he’d heard about winter at Kabetogama Lake, he found Dean Winchester on his own, fighting off two shadows in the dark, and once those were taken care of he got himself saddled with a bloody kid, who never should’ve been out there in the first place.

He explains this to the shivering lump in the backseat—mainly talking so there’s something to keep Dean awake, because it’s colder than a happy hell and sleeping in that that plus bleeding out surely isn’t a good combination, in Bobby’s inexpert medical opinion. He further expands on his opinion of Minnesota in general, on the damn frozen lakes and the spirits that idiots dredge up out of them, and on boys who can’t wait for some damn backup before wading out into danger, and it turns out Dean is awake after all because he shifts at that, grumbles woozy: "Wasn’t like I had a choice."

"Oh, yeah, that fight was just set in stone from time immemorial," Bobby says, and in the rearview of his Chevelle he sees Dean’s eyes close, pained, and he bites his tongue against the other things he could say and steps on the gas, instead.

The cabin’s small but it’s got a good gas fireplace, and a wooden table that can hold a man’s weight—or a boy’s, when Bobby gets Dean’s ass settled on the edge and then makes him tip back. "I’m not going to lie to you, kid," Bobby says, tearing at Dean’s jeans to show up the wounds in the firelight. Damn, that’s nasty. "This is going to suck. Royal-ass suck."

"Wouldn’t have it any other way," Dean says, smiling brief and pale, and Bobby rolls his eyes but pats Dean’s belly, too, proud of him despite everything, and then there’s nothing for it but needle and floss and grain alcohol and holding Dean’s hand against the squirming when the holy water sluices out the wounds, and making him comfortable when he passes out, after.

Bobby carries him to the bed. Doesn’t seem right, even if he was a fool, to make him sleep on the table after all that. He strips off the bloody coat, the too-big flannel shirt, the boots and socks and jeans. His boxers are torn only on the one leg and his t-shirt’s black and if it’s stained Bobby doesn’t know about it, and he’s all paleness there in the bed—bloodloss and his face drawn, even sleeping, and his lips pale too. That amulet, the one Bobby let Sam have years ago, still slung around Dean’s neck. He touches the sharp little horns, lightly, and then presses his fingers to Dean’s throat, checking his pulse. There, steady. That’s about as much as Bobby knows to check for. He drags over the chair, settles down. This boy. All the things Bobby had hoped for him, had known he was a damn idiot for hoping for. Well. Bobby can look after him, at least. For now. For as long as he can.

A fever, the next day. Not unexpected, but a pain in the ass. "You Winchesters," Bobby says, laying snow-wet t-shirts at Dean’s forehead and chest, trying to bring the temperature down. "Never giving me rest."

"Sorry," Dean says, shivering, and Bobby shakes his head.

"It’s no fun to tell you what’s what if you actually believe it, kid," he says, and Dean blinks at him heavy-eyed, doesn’t understand. Just as well. He has to help Dean to the toilet, and tries to give him privacy for that and the cleaning up, and he pours a slug of the good whiskey down his throat later and, hey, Dean doesn’t hurl it right back up. That’s progress.

Dean talks, when he has a fever. Bobby’d forgotten that. When he was a little boy it was all cartoons and monsters, and talking to Sam whether or not his brother was there. That part’s not different.

"Sammy," Dean mumbles, when Bobby touches his forehead. _Sammy_ , when he wakes up, and _Sammy_ when the middle-of-the-night gets too strange, and Bobby touches him then, too, and lays a heavy hand on Dean’s chest when he weeps, feverish and confused and overcome. He fall asleep with no fuss, when that’s done, and Bobby chews the inside of his lip and wonders. These two kids, and their dad. He never meant to get into the middle of it but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice.

Like it’s immutable? he thinks to himself, and shakes his head. He always had choices, and he made them. No matter what an idiot it made him. No matter what it cost, sometimes, when he sat awake in the middle of the night with a bottle in his hand, thinking of days that could’ve been.

Fever breaks in the middle of the night, on the second day. Dean wakes up soaked in sweat, shivering for other reasons. "I feel like ass," he says, raw-voiced, and Bobby helps him up, takes him to the bath again. Enough water in the tank for a wash, and Dean strips down shakily, sinks down into the warm water with his bad leg propped over the rim. Bobby hands him soap, shampoo, lets him get on with it. Goes out into the main room and strips the sheets off the bed that smell like blood and feversweat, and then stands in front of the fire and tries to put the image out of his head. The things he could’ve done, and chose always not to.

Dean needs help, getting out. He struggles, splashing, trying not to ask—Bobby can hear him, from here. He goes to the doorway and finds Dean with his weak arms braced on the edge of the tub, his face miserable. "Your lungs not working, dumbass?" he says, but as kindly as he can, and Dean slumps back, defeated.

"Tired of this," Dean says. He flicks his knee, above the line of the dressing that he’s managed to at least mostly keep out of the water. "Sorry, Bobby. Didn’t mean to—"

"Yeah, yeah," Bobby says, and Dean ducks his head. Bobby finds the other towel, flaps it out. "What’s your daddy thinking, anyway. Sending you out like this."

Dean shrugs, awkward. "Gotta get used to being on my own," Dean says. "I mean, with Sammy—"

He bites it off, like the name wasn’t supposed to pass his lips. That amulet’s still right in place, the leather black from the water. Bobby doesn’t respond but only offers his hands, and for the second time they lever Dean up to his feet—naked, shining, shaky. He shivers, in the cooler air, and Bobby wraps the towel around his shoulders and helps him step over the lip of the tub, and he’s close and wet and just—sad, all the parts of him sad, from his feet to the damp crown of his head. Too young—that’s always been Bobby’s thought, with Dean. Too young, for everything that happened, and too young to be hunting, and too young for the weight of lives on his shoulders, and too young for—

Dean leans in against his chest. Like he did in the snow, only this time he’s warm. Bobby wraps an arm around his back and Dean curls his hand in Bobby’s shirt, and ducks his head under Bobby’s chin. He shifts his weight and the towel slips, swinging down to Dean’s hip, and Deans hand slides down Bobby’s chest to his stomach. He takes a breath. "Dean," he says. Question, warning.

The hand pauses, holding there. The tips of Dean’s ears have gone real pink. Bobby holds for a second, and then puts his hand on Dean’s jaw, and forces it up so Dean has to look at him—and he does, to his credit, even if his face is red and his mouth’s a pursed disappointment. "I just miss—" Dean says, and bites that off too. All these things he says and doesn’t say. Bobby wants to know what means and simultaneously never, ever wants to go there. Dean’s eyes cut down, his jaw stiff in Bobby’s hand. He snorts, after a second. Bitter. "Wanted to not feel like shit for a second, I guess."

Petulant. Sometimes he really is a kid. Bobby squints down at him, wondering—if it’s worth it, to be a sop-up, a second-best. Ports in a storm. He drags his thumb over Dean’s chin, presses up to his bottom lip, and Dean looks up at him. Bobby kisses him. Brief, more a brush of their mouths, his beard on Dean’s softer skin. He pulls back to see the look in Dean’s eyes and it’s—not shock, not regret. He looks blown-open. Like acceptance was the last thing he expected.

Bobby thumbs over his lip again, heat rising in him that’s been so long packed-down. All the things he never dared to look in the eye. Well. Here’s a choice to make, again. Dean’s hand curls against his stomach and his lips part. Bobby smiles at him, pats his cheek, and hopes that he’s making the right one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/620482189473300480/in-support-of-black-lives-matter)


	12. SPN: wincest, mommy!kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated E; bunker era, mommy kink.

One of Sam’s earliest memories is of Dean washing his hair. Most of his early memories circle around Dean, one way or another—reading together, wrestling for blankets in their shared bed, playing Space Invaders at the arcade with Sam standing on a crate to reach—but that one feels different. In his less self-forgiving moments, he thinks that’s where the trouble started.

In the memory he’s really small—four maybe, though he’s never had a good way of tracking that kind of thing. The houses and apartments and motels changed too much and every old flash of time feels like it’s from a different life. Wherever they were, the bathroom was yellow, and he had a chipped Superman action figure who was swimming in the bath with him, and Dean was kneeling right next to the tub and he was wearing a purple t-shirt that Sam had soaked wet to black. Dean was teasing like he usually did, but Sam doesn’t remember it being mean-spirited like sometimes it could get later. Dean massaged the shampoo into his hair and it smelled like chemical peach, and he said _tip your head back, kiddo_ when it was time to rinse, and Sam did and laughed when the water splashed all over. When the bubbles were gone Dean had him stand up and wrapped him up in a towel, and it felt—safe. He was happy.

Things weren’t as happy, later. He learned things he’d desperately wanted to know, and regretted it when he did. It got worse, between him and Dad. Between him and Dean sometimes, too, and that was way more gutting. Sometimes Dean would be gone, and it’d just be Sam and Dad, and that was miserable—silent car rides, mechanical conversation. Dinner would be whatever takeout Dad could manage and at bedtime Sam would lay curled up all alone and wish desperately that Dean was there so that even if they kicked at each other and wrestled and Dean called him a dumb squirt, when it was time to actually sleep he could lay his head on Dean’s chest or curl up against his back, and it’d feel safe again, like it never did when Dean was gone.

Thirteen and Sam was all torn-up inside. Dean teased him for not flirting with girls but girls weren’t what Sam wanted. Sure, he liked the stuff he saw sometimes, when a skinmag got left out or when Dean thought he was sneaking a porno when Sam was asleep—tits and pussy, soft skin, pretty lips, pretty faces. There was one Playboy that he about rubbed himself raw over—he got it. But it wasn’t—enough. It wasn’t what he thought about, in the middle of the night, and what he had to creep out of their bed and shut himself into the bathroom and freak out about. Soft skin, and pretty lips, and even—even tits, sure, because—at seventeen Dean was the prettiest thing Sam had ever seen, and even if Dean hit a growth spurt and was getting shoulders like a man and he was all tall, he was still—soft, in their bed, and his body was—was _Sam’s_ , the way all the random pornstars and actresses and girls at school weren’t, and never would be. Dean would make dinner, mac & cheese & hamburger just like Sam liked it, and he’d ruffle Sam’s hair and smile at him, and Sam would chub up right there at the formica table, and he’d eat all strangled-up while Dean yessir nosirred Dad, and he’d use the excuse of reading for school to sneak off to bed early, and lay there in the dark with his face buried in Dean’s pillow, hand crammed down his shorts, thinking—what the hell? what the hell?

Later—it got worse. He left. He met a girl. He tried his best. It didn’t escape his notice that she had soft skin and green eyes and fair hair and that when she wanted to make him dinner for a date night he asked completely unthinking for mac & cheese & hamburger, and she laughed and said, "Really?" but she made it, and it was—higher quality, more skill put in, and wasn’t nearly as good. In bed she didn’t mind if he lay with his head on her chest and felt the rise of her tits, and she liked getting fucked with him spooned up behind her, so that was—okay. He could make it. He—he was almost sure he could make it.

Later—worse again. Better, because there was Dean, but Dean didn’t cook anymore and he didn’t share Sam’s bed, and he wore a big square leather jacket that made him look like he was trying to be Dad. They were brothers, of course, and Dean teased and got mad, but it wasn’t—it wasn’t the same as it had been. It was harder. Some days when it was the worst it could be Sam went and hid in the bathroom and everything in him wanted to just curl up, get taken care of. Wanted those old days, of baths and food, of Dean touching his hair like he did, of warmth, of softness. They weren’t on the table though, and he didn’t think they ever would be again. It wasn’t worth pining for, though, because there was work to be done, so: he squared his shoulders, and washed his face, and went out and faced the world.

Later—Dean kissed him. He kissed Dean, and then they did rather more than kissing. The world they’d saved didn’t end. They really were the days of miracles. Finally getting to touch Dean like he’d always dreamed about didn’t fix things, but it sure didn’t make them worse, and the world still rattled on ridiculously and had to be saved over and over again, but—

They end up living in a bunker. Ridiculous, but it could be worse. Dean picks a room, says, "This is going to be _awesome_ ," and he’s happy in a way he hasn’t been in months and so Sam smiles at him, and fucks him right there on the ancient creaking bed, and Dean gasps and eggs him on and then afterward, when they’re laying next to each other and panting, he says, "Man, this mattress sucks," and he goes shopping.

They have some downtime. No worlds ending, right away. Dean throws himself into the bunker the same way Sam throws himself into the bunker’s records, and while Sam categorizes knowledge and history and lore Dean nests like Sam never knew he could. New soft mattress, new clothes. He cooks again and it’s—amazing. Sam moans, with that first bite of friggin’ perfect hamburger, and Dean grins at him and squeezes his shoulder, and it—oh. Something swirls warm in Sam’s stomach and he swallows, wonders. Remembering.

"I gotta learn to make pie," Dean says, in bed that night, and Sam kisses the back of his shoulder, doesn’t think much of it, until the next day Dean comes back home from the store with a box of fresh peaches, and Sam comes over to investigate just as Dean bites into one and the ripe smell of the sunwarm skin drifts over Dean’s shoulder, and Sam’s—hard, instantly, his whole body turning on all at once like someone found his levers and threw every one to max.

"Whoa," Dean says, when Sam grabs him, but he grins and revs up right away because Dean always does. He kisses back, easy, tasting like peach, and Sam groans and drags him to the table, settles him on his ass and starts stripping him, right there. Dean laughs, letting Sam tug off his boots. "We haven’t fucked in here yet, this is awesome," he says, but Sam’s thinking of—god, his ass, and he goes to his knees on the concrete floor, spreads him wide, licks in. Dean groans wild, up above, gets his hand in Sam’s hair, and—and Sam can’t wait, he can’t wait, but he eats at Dean sloppy and pushes in his fingers and makes him as soft as he can, as open, knowing at least that Dean wants it as much as he does. When Dean’s moaning he stands up, undoes his jeans—spits wet for his dick, fists himself and pushes in—and Dean flinches up into it but moans, wraps his legs around Sam’s hips and his arms around Sam’s shoulders, and Sam shudders and buries his face down by Dean’s throat and crams himself in, overcome.

God, god—Dean still smells like peach, his fingers juicy-sticky as he touches Sam’s cheek, his hair. "Fuck," Sam says, digging in deeper, and Dean hiccups almost as Sam starts grinding in, not enough wet to make it easy but god, he’s tight and warm, letting Sam in. "That good? God, you feel—"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean pants back, digging a heel into Sam’s ass, and Sam spits more wet down between them and then starts really giving it to Dean, shoving in, wild—and he starts talking too, because he never can seem to help himself and Dean loves it, anyway, goes bright red and laughs and comes faster when Sam’s telling him all the ridiculous nasty things he’s thinking, and Sam’s going hard, holding Dean’s ass up with one hand and bracing himself with the other and talking soft into Dean’s ear and smelling it, everywhere, like the whole kitchen’s full of that ancient memory, and he babbles _you feel so good, you’re incredible, I want to fuck you like this all the time, god, Dean, your pussy’s perfect_ and Dean gasps, grabs Sam’s hair, because they’ve played with that a little before but it always drives Dean absolutely nuts—and Sam groans and leans into it, slamming him, feeling his gut curl up tight and Dean’s breath come faster, and he says _yeah, yeah you like that, me talking about your pussy, god—I’m gonna come in there, cream you up, and you want it, don’t you? you want it like that, up inside, want me to get you all knocked up, get you pregnant—_

"Sammy," Dean says, clawing at Sam’s shoulder, arching up, and Sam presses his face down into Dean’s throat and hitches his ass into just the right place and the words come like from the pit of his gut, no passing his brain, no hesitation—he says, "You’re gonna be so good, Mom—" and he comes then—hard, brutal—curling forward, gasping, and Dean’s tight around him and his hands are in Sam’s hair and he’s holding him deep, warm, safe, and Sam comes back to normal brain function only slowly, and only when Dean’s stroking his shoulders, slow and soft, does Sam realize what he said.

"Jesus," he blurts out, jerking, and Dean makes a soft _ah_ sound as Sam twitches, still buried inside. "Jesus—sorry, I—"

"Wondered how long it’d take," Dean says, dry, but he’s still all wrapped up around Sam and still, oh, hard—Sam didn’t take care of him, god—and Sam starts to shift up, away, but Dean holds him, keeps his head down tight against his shoulder. Sam braces, curled over, awkward now that he’s not wound up with his dick doing the thinking. "Sammy."

He closes his eyes. "Sorry."

Dean flicks the back of his head. "Quit it." Sam licks his lips. Dean pets his hair back, gentle like he still is, sometimes. "You been thinking about that, huh? New level of freaky, even for us, you know." It’s surprisingly quiet and nonjudgmental, considering. Sam shifts, his dick still half-hard. "What’ve you been coming up with in that massive noggin? What—me all barefoot in the kitchen? Your little wife?"

"Not exactly," Sam says, mortified, and Dean hums thoughtfully and then squeezes Sam’s hips between his thighs, and then he picks up Sam’s head from his shoulder and presses a kiss against his forehead, soft, and that’s—

"It’s okay, Sammy," Dean says, easy, and his face is bright red but he—he gets it, all the way, because Dean always knows what Sam wants when it comes to this even if Sam’s too fucked-up about it to say it, has known ever since that first time when Sam was torn up with wanting him and Dean said _fuck this_ and dragged Sam’s head down to kiss him, the night unfurling with possibility around them. Dean smiles at him, soft, and tucks Sam’s hair behind his ears, and he says, impossibly he says: "I’ve got you, baby. Let’s finish up and I’ll make you some dinner, okay? Whatever you want."

Sam’s mouth feels dry. "Mac and cheese," he says, brainless, hardening up again, and Dean half-laughs, nods, says, "Sure thing," and Sam pushes up and kisses him, grateful, and Dean holds him, safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/620572421661016064/in-support-of-black-lives-matter)


	13. SPN: Sam & Dean gen, Sam's wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam & Dean gen. Rated M; season 7, Sam's hallucinations, canon levels of self-harm.

The car breaks down in Logansport, Indiana. "She needs some TLC," Dean stresses, "she doesn’t _break down_ ," and Sam rolls his eyes but, fine. The car needs a repair, in Logansport, and it’s a pretty day, rolling into autumn, and there are pretty good hoagies from the place next to the shop, and Dean is… miserable.

"You think he’s more sad about the car or the fact that you’ve got bats in the belfry?" Sam hears. He ignores it.

It’s a belt, or something. Something with a wrench. Sam knows just enough to change the oil and the spark plugs and the tires, and he can tighten things that need tightening but the car has always been Dean’s domain. Sam likes it that way. He also likes just—sitting here. The shop’s one of those co-op places where greasy dads go to spend some time and gossip, and they all whistled appreciatively when Dean babied the car into the bay, and Dean smiled and shook hands and then got a spot to himself, and tools to borrow. Sam hung back—voice in his ear saying, "Just as well, you are pretty useless," which he ignored—and when they’d all disbanded to listen to the oldies station and Dean was hip-deep in the car, Sam sat on the cooler with their sandwiches and a six-pack and tried to just be there. To be here. It’s better than any other option.

"Hand that over, will you," Dean says. Sam hands it over. Dean doesn’t acknowledge it but Sam doesn’t need him to, because this is Dean focused, working. Happy as he ever gets, except he’s not happy.

Not like Sam doesn’t get it. Purgatory opening up, and Cas dying. Breaking his leg, losing Bobby’s house, nearly dying—nearly dying again—and he’s worrying about Sam, too, which he shouldn’t. Sam has this under control.

"Do you," Sam hears.

A breeze sweeps along the street outside. The trees ruffle, starting toward gold. Sam finishes his beer, gets another. Nudges Dean’s hip. "Hey," he says, and holds out a can when Dean glances at him, and Dean shakes his head, says, "In a minute," and dives back into the car before Sam can really see his face.

Sam leans against the side panel. Pretty afternoon. Prettier here than it was in Dearborn, when Dean got taken by Osiris—not quite as pretty as it was by the lake, yesterday morning, when Dean was safe and Sam said that he didn’t feel the guilt the same way he used to, and Dean’s face shifted in some essential way. Like he couldn’t believe it. Like it wasn’t something he would’ve ever thought could be true.

"It’s pretty ridiculous, buddy," Sam hears.

He wishes the cut on his hand hadn’t healed. Luckily, with their job, there’s always some kind of pain. He finds the bruise on his leg that’s deep, the one that won’t heal right, and settles his fingers there and applies steady, pulsing pressure. Feels like it gongs against the bone, his temples breaking out in sweat. He looks out at the clear day, hurts in an agonizing and focusing way, and whatever whispers there might be over the sound of the mechanics and the tinny radio fade, and whatever sense of misery he built in himself fades with them. He breathes, clean, and knocks his knuckles against the car.

"Hey, seriously," he says. "You want something? Sandwich is getting cold."

"Sandwich started out cold," Dean says, popping a glance up over the edge of the hood, and he rolls his eyes when Sam sighs. "I’m good, Sam. Stop asking."

"You’re not, though," Sam says, and he’s not trying to start a fight but Dean’s shoulders round out like he’s preparing for one. He watches Dean brace his hands, his head drop, and he shrugs. "I get it. There’s a lot to not be fine about. But you could—I don’t know. Who else are you going to talk to?"

The song on the radio changes, while Dean stares into the engine. Springsteen, the one with the dead dog. Sam’s mouth twists, and he looks down at the beer can he’s bracing between both hands.

"I’m glad," Dean says. Sam bites the inside of his cheek. That tone’s anything but. "I am, Sammy. It’s great, that you—you feel cleansed, or whatever. No one deserves it more."

That part, Dean believes, and Sam glances up to find him still there, carved. He looks tired.

"I’m just—not ever gonna feel that way. And I know it, okay? And you know it, too. So I’m just trying to fix the car, because it’s something I can fix. Doesn’t have to be a whole thing."

A roaring, at the back of Sam’s head, and in an instant the street outside’s washed with black blood, and there’s fire pouring out of the concrete floor of the shop, and there’s an ice crawling up from inside his bones and a voice in his ear saying _don’t you get it, this is it—this is why everyone’s better off without you—you can’t help anyone—you can’t—_

Sam wraps his hand around his thigh and crushes his fingers so hard into the bruise that something pops, in a knuckle or tendon, and it hurts bad enough that his vision wobbles, his nerves stripped as frayed electrical wire, the pain juddering through him like touching his fingers to a bare socket. When he opens his eyes again the street’s normal, with a minivan cruising slowly past, and Dean’s sighing, and then lifting his head, and Sam manages to meet his eye when Dean looks at him.

He does look tired. Hurt, in some—deep way, a way Sam doesn’t know how to touch. What Sam does know is how not to make it worse. After enough years, he’s figured that much out, at least.

He holds out the beer again, resting the cold edge just inside gape of the engine. Dean takes it, after a few seconds. "Think this is going to take much longer?" Sam says, stretching his legs out on the concrete. "Or are we gonna need to get one of those old guys to show you the ropes?"

"The ropes," Dean says. There’s still a trainwreck in him, but he grasps what little line Sam managed to throw. "Dude, I invented the ropes. I am the ropes."

"Oh, so you wove them yourself, huh," Sam says, and Dean frowns and says, "Do—is that what you do with ropes?" and Sam pauses and realizes he doesn’t know, but Dean rolls ahead with it anyway—"Then, yes, okay, I am the ropeweaver, okay, so just lay off—" and he’s not happy, at all, and if Sam’s honest he’s not either. They’re neither of them happy. What they can be is—okay, and not a drag on each other, and some days that’s all Sam worries about managing. Just making it to the next day, when things might be better. Sam hopes for it. These days, hope’s about the limit of what he’s got.

Dean cracks his beer, and lifts it in a little toast to Sam. Sam returns the toast, and they drink at the same time, and then Dean nods, and returns to the engine. Sam sinks back with his shoulder against the car to hold up his weight, and closes his eyes, and waits for the day to spool away, and keeps his hand locked tight against that bruise. Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/620602885634408448/in-support-of-black-lives-matter)


	14. SPN: wincest, Sam's cast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated M; s2, Sam's cast; angst.

They’re out of Illinois into Missouri when the aching gets too bad and Sam can’t stand it anymore, and he breaks the two hundred mile silence to say, "I really think I need to go to the hospital, man."

Dean glances at him across the bench seat, at least—not a stone, staring out the windshield like he’s been—and nods. "Coming up on Columbia soon," he says, quiet. "We’ll get you looked at."

Sam nods back and goes back to watching the dark trees go by the highway, out the passenger window. His arm really is painful, the bone definitely broken—zombie girl got him good, for sure—but it’s distant to everything that’s tangled up inside. What Dean said, this afternoon, and how they haven’t been able to say—much of anything, since then.

The hospital’s small but clean. Nine at night and there are just a few people ahead of Sam in the triage order, which isn’t a big deal except that it means that he and Dean are just—sitting there, quiet still, in a back corner of the waiting room where they won’t be in the way. Hospitals are familiar territory, but this is the first one they’ve been to since—

"Coffee?" Dean says. He’s antsy. Knee jogging, and his shoulders all bunched up high in Dad’s coat. Sam swallows. Dean’s coat, now, one hundred percent. Dean stands up, doesn’t wait for Sam to answer. "Coffee. Don’t worry, I’ll put a bunch of sugar in yours."

"Thanks," Sam says, dry, but Dean’s already striding away, over to the hallway under the little sign that says _Restrooms, Refreshments_. He’s gone immediately and Sam’s alone, and he closes his eyes, leans his head back against the wall. God, his arm hurts, no match for the four aspirin he dry-swallowed in the car, and yet it’s still, still—

It’s the smell, maybe. Antiseptic, bleach, and yet something weirdly sweet underneath. Air fresheners, maybe. Maybe something else. Wasn’t that long ago that Sam was sitting at Dean’s bedside, aching and praying and hoping that he’d wake up, and there was nothing in return but the soft beep of the machines and the slow rise of Dean’s chest and the smell, everywhere. Then later, when they were watching the crash team work on Dad—he was holding Dean up in the doorway, their bodies warm and alive together, and there was the smell of coffee that had spilled everywhere but it was antiseptic, under that, and now Sam thinks if Dean gets back with coffee before Sam has to talk to the orthopedist he might hurl. Well, it’s a hospital. They have cleaning crews for that.

Dean actually doesn’t get back, before the nurse at the desk’s calling the fake name on Sam’s fake insurance card. He stands up and she waves him back, and when Sam glances down the hall to the vending machines Dean’s nowhere to be found.

X-rays. The ulna. Waiting longer, and then making polite small-talk with the tech who wraps him up, and then the waiting again while the fiberglass gets weirdly warm, a sensation Sam had kinda forgotten. When it’s hardened and the tech seems satisfied he gets released, and it’s only then that Dean finds him again, looking almost-frantic in the waiting room. Sam sees the sigh go out of him, across the floor, and he smiles, but Dean doesn’t smile back.

Dean’s waiting outside, in the night air, when Sam finally comes out. "Why’d you bother with discharge paperwork?" he says, and Sam shrugs and says, "Maybe Lenny will need a medical history, can’t hurt," and Dean shakes his head but he’s not mad, just—antsy. Sam bumps his shoulder, jerks his head at the parking lot, and Dean nods and follows along, and then it’s—night streets, and not talking again, and getting a motel room with two beds, and when they drop their bags Dean says, like it’s an effort, "Order food?" and Sam crosses the fugly carpet and turns Dean by the shoulder, and palms his face with his one good hand, and then leans down and kisses him, soft.

It still feels new, even if it’s really not. When they were younger it felt different—felt like crazy young love, to Sam, and fooling around, and fun. Only lately that they’d picked it back up again, after that last hospital, and now it’s—an undiscovered country, all over again. Sam kisses Dean and Dean breathes miserable into it, but he holds Sam’s waist and kisses back, slowly. Sam keeps it shallow, soft, because this isn’t even—this isn’t tearing at each other, rough fucking like they’ve done after a job, desperate middle-of-the-night stuff where they cling to each other like the world’s going to take them apart. Sam’s just been wanting to do this, all day, ever since Dean sat there on the hood of the car in the golden sunlight and cried, and Sam didn’t know how to touch him. Just like Dean said—there wasn’t anything that could make it better. Their dad was dead, and he’d died for Dean, and Sam thinks, sometimes when he’s had a few too many or when he’s desperately tired or when he’s got Dean’s skin against his—that if he could somehow do it over again—if he could change things—

Dean pulls back from his mouth, eventually. He ducks his head down, so Sam can’t see his face. "Bone health got you hot, Sammy?" he says.

He sounds so tired. Sam rests his new cast against Dean’s waist, clumsy, and lets his other hand slide down to the side of Dean’s neck, just inside the collar of the leather jacket. The amulet cord slips against his fingers and he winds it around one of them, holding on. "Sleep with me tonight," Sam says. They don’t usually—they’re both big, and it is still new. Even so. "I’ll let you hog the covers."

"Like I’m the one who hogs the covers," Dean says, quiet. He is, but Sam doesn’t actually mind that much. Dean puts a hand on Sam’s chest, sighs. "Sammy—" he starts, but just shakes his head and it doesn’t go anywhere.

"We’ll order Chinese," Sam says. "Watch something stupid on pay-per-view. Come on. I’m injured."

Dean snorts, and finally does look up at him. He’s not smiling, but he’s been worse. Sam slides his coiled finger down until he’s holding the amulet in his hand, and raises his eyebrows. Dean licks his lips. "Fine," he says, and if his voice sounds a little raw, a little sore, well. It’s been a long day, and Sam’s not going to say a damn thing. "But you’re not stealing any of my egg rolls."

Sam leans down and kisses him again, soft, on the corner of his mouth, and Dean turns his face against Sam’s, his hand digging in against Sam’s chest. Sam holds him, careful. "No promises," he says, and Dean huffs, and that deep painful ache in the middle of Sam’s chest doesn’t go away, exactly, but he thinks at least like this—he can deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/620748863441174528/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-galaxyofgrace)


	15. MCU: Sam Wilson & Bucky Barnes, BLM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCU: Sam Wilson & Bucky Barnes gen. Rated M: post-Endgame setting, race issues, real-world BLM protests mentioned.

Their training compound’s in Kansas, of all places. "Isn’t Superman from Kansas?" Bucky had said, quiet, when they got there, and Sam had fully turned around in the van and said, "Hang on, how do you know about Superman?" and Bucky had given him a rare spark of actual personality and said, "I’m from the ‘40s, not the 1840s," and Sam had rolled his eyes but responded that, yes, Superman allegedly grew up in Kansas. Problem was that Superman wasn’t real. He just hung out in the comics and he had it easy, beacon of light and apple pie and the American Way, and Sam—shiny star on his shield or no—Sam was just… Sam. As for the American Way—

Bucky doesn’t seem to care. Then again, Bucky doesn’t seem to care about much. "Do it again," he says, squinting. Sam takes a breath, takes the shield heavy in both hands. Vibranium’s as breathtakingly light as it is strong, but still, tossing a massive hunk of it around like a fancy frisbee has been taking some getting used to. He sights the target, how Bucky’s aiming his shot, and throws—and it hits mostly on-center on the first target, bounces a little off on the second, and then—shit, goes wild, and Bucky jumps and catches it with his vibranium hand, a gonging sound resonating through the practice gym.

"Damn it," Sam sighs.

Bucky shrugs one shoulder. "Better," he says. Economical with words, this guy. "You’ll get there."

Sam drags a hand over his head. "You’re there now," he says, and it’s bitter like he tries not to let out. "Cap should’ve chosen you."

Bucky tosses the shield back to him, easy throw, and Sam catches it by the handles. "You’re Cap," he says. Flat but steady. He nods at the shield. "It fits."

Sam rotates the shield in his hands, looking at the burnished front. That’s him, he thinks. Red, white, and blue.

It’s harder and harder, every day. To stay here. To train. "We have to be ready," Bucky says, and Sam knows that. There’s so much that needs to be done he feels like the world’s drowning, but there’s T’Challa and Wanda and Scott and that spiderkid in New York, and they’re doing what they can. Sam’s been Falcon for years, and before that he was a soldier—he knows that someone coming in and fumblingly trying to help just tends to screw things up more than it helps. The country doesn’t need Falcon, right now—they need their Captain. It’s been drilled into him often enough and on his better days, he believes it.

These are not better days.

The compound’s in Kansas, miles from everything. With Pepper outfitting the place with the finest tech Stark Industries had to offer, they’re hyperconnected to the rest of the world despite the distance. Means that from the living area, sitting on his ass with his hands over his mouth, Sam can see live feed from every city in the country. Every news story. Every march. Every mama who lost her baby, weeping on the national news, asking why, why. Every kid, standing up with their mask on, raising the fist of pride high—getting a rubber bullet to the eye, a baton to the head, coughing in clouds of tear gas lit in the night by flares. He cried, the first time. He’s too wrung out to cry now.

"We should train," Bucky says, somewhere behind him.

Sam closes his eyes. "Not now, man," he says, and there’s quiet.

The news feed keeps going, brutal. _At least thirty protesters have been arrested tonight in Birmingham, after defacing a Confederate memorial dedicated to—_

"Mute the TV," Bucky says, and the house obediently goes silent. StarkTech. The whole place, wired up and ultramodern and serving them every comfort, when all around the country—shit, the world, because there were those people standing with their eyes streaming in London, in Sao Paolo, in Dakar—they’re fighting. And he’s just—

"Sam," Bucky says. Sam opens his eyes and finds Bucky there on the other side of the couch. His hair’s dragged back in a ponytail and he’s wearing a t-shirt and sweats, but even dressed down for training Sam can’t get away from how he looks—unearthly. Something about his eyes.

"The Avengers should be able to do something," Sam says. That feeling in his chest—that forever feeling—being discounted, looked down on, spat on, fucked over—those years of looking over his shoulder, of smiling and playing polite—to be safe, and now he’s the safest bastard in the world, when he should be— "We could go out there. We could protect those kids. Those—god, those old men. You think if we brought out the whole team, in D.C. or Seattle, those cops wouldn’t drop their weapons and run?"

"They probably would," Bucky says. Even. "Would that do it?"

"It’d save some of them," Sam says, and he knows it’s true. He also knows—he shakes his head. The Avengers… they weren’t built for this. Alien invasion, wormholes opening in the sky, world war—that’s their game. The superhero game. He leans forward, watching the silent footage on the television. "I could fly in there and snatch up one of those brutal cops, and you know what’d happen? His replacement would be in there the next day."

"Systemic," Bucky says. "Right?"

Sam snorts. They’ve been working on Bucky’s modern knowledge. "Yeah, that’s right," Sam says, dropping his head. His shoulders hurt. His whole body, tense and aching as a bruise. "Systemic. Good vocab word."

Bucky sits with him. Sam tries breathing. He was a counselor, he knows the techniques, but try as he might with slow exhales it just doesn’t work. It feels like a poison, trapped inside. "I’m supposed to be Captain America," he says, finally. "Pepper’s gonna get me wings in red, white, and blue, and I’m gonna have a uniform with the stripes, and I’ve got the shield, and none of it matters, man. None of it. I’m just gonna be a symbol they put on t-shirts, and army recruiting posters, and cops are probably gonna have Cap hats on when they go out and—" He can’t finish the thought. It’s nauseating. He swallows. "And even—I mean, I thought, I’m a black man. I’m the enemy. So, I put on that uniform, are they just gonna say—oh, Cap’s just a PR stunt now, and discount everything we’re working for here? Or—will it be, oh, Cap, he’s great, he’s one of the good ones. He ain’t a _thug_ like the rest. I won’t even be black anymore. I’ll be Captain America, and the rest of us will still be out there dying."

The television goes to commercial. Mattresses. Apparently that’s the ad block that suits brutality. He says, "TV off," and then it’s just the sleek, beautiful lounge, and the supersoldier assassin carved like a statue on the other couch, and Sam sitting there. The night outside feels like a prison.

"Steve never wanted to be Captain America," Bucky says. He’s calm, his hands—one white, one black metal—laced at ease between his spread knees. "He just wanted to help people. He was nuts about it. Always picking fights bigger than he was." Sam huffs, even if the weight’s still too hard to actually laugh. He’s seen the exhibit, in the Smithsonian. He knew the man. He can imagine. Bucky smiles—incredibly, even if it’s brief. "He told me later that he finally got it. What it meant. There were a lot of times he didn’t agree with what we were doing, as a country, or what we were ordered to do, or what people used his image for. But he realized eventually that Captain America didn’t work for any of them. He was meant to be a symbol of what we could be. What we hoped to be. What we had to work for."

"A gorgeous white man with perfect blue eyes?" Sam says.

Bucky doesn’t roll his eyes, even if Sam’s being obtuse. "What do you think?"

Sam shakes his head. He looks at the shield, leaned up against the other chair where he dropped it, earlier. The star’s a little scuffed, from their training. "I think a country isn’t free until everyone in it is free," he says. "And some things are going to have to break to achieve that freedom. And I’m not doing enough to help."

Bucky nods. "TV on," he says, and it’s still muted but the screens light up with news feeds. The crowds of kids, in black, pushing back against the riot gear. Medics in dirty t-shirts bandaging their friends. Umbrellas lifted above their heads, protecting themselves. "They’re fighting," Bucky says, and Sam feels the heat rising up behind his eyes, watching. These kids. These fuckin’ kids.

"Sam," Bucky says, and Sam looks at him, swallowing. "There’s a reason Cap holds a shield."

Deep breath, in and out. "And you got my left?" Sam says, and Bucky shrugs, like, of course. Sam nods, watching the smoke rise. "Okay," he says, and stands up. "Okay. Let’s go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/620690265881133058/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-manawhaat)


	16. SPN RPF: Jared/Jensen, BDSM & CBT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural RPF: Jared/Jensen. Rated E; J2 AU, established relationship, established BDSM switching, CBT, aftercare.

Jared’s lazy and relaxed from the bath, and he ate a good light meal an hour before, and they split the bottle of wine so he’s feeling warm and good but not close to tipsy. Jensen kisses his collarbone, squeezes his biceps. "Ready, right?" he says, and Jared nods, and Jensen smiles up at him—that pretty, pretty smile, the one that revved Jared up the second they met—and then Jensen says, in a different tone, "Sit," and Jared does, immediately, because after all that lead-up it’s finally time to play.

Blindfold first, the soft black scarf Jensen always prefers, wrapped twice around his face and tied tight. Jared feels something in his spine realign, as soon as it’s on. Pavlov’s sub. He breathes slow in through his nose and out through his mouth, and Jensen rubs a thumb over his lips to feel it, easy and possessive. Jared squeezes his eyes tighter, behind the blindfold. God. He was ready, before. Now he can’t wait.

He has to, though, because Jensen operates a certain way. He’s naked, because he always is when it’s Jensen’s turn—through dinner, through drinks, Jensen getting to enjoy his body, getting to watch him rev up. It’s warm in here and the bed’s soft, and he’s being taken care of, and with all this coddling he has to wait, to get his treat. That’s the deal.

It’s a low pulse, in his belly. Jensen doesn’t talk during this part, leaving Jared to his thoughts. His direction is just in his hands, on Jared’s skin, or his denim-clad knee nudging Jared’s leg a certain way. He’s pushed back, on the bed, and he lies there while Jensen ties his hands up to center post on their headboard. Tight, in the cuffs, but not enough to hurt, and Jensen strokes a thumb over one of Jared’s palms, soft, before he moves on. There’s just enough slack in the chain that Jared can wrap his fingers around it if he needs to, and he does now, breathing deep, waiting. No music, when Jensen’s in charge—all he has is the sound of his breath, and of Jensen’s, and the sound of Jensen moving around the bed in his bare feet, and of him getting out whatever he wants to use. He can hear his own heart beating, inside his head, and he focuses on that while Jensen spreads his legs, while he starts up the ties. Soft rope, under his knees to keep them bent and spread wide—at his ankles to keep him from kicking—and he licks his lips when an even softer loop goes under his balls, around the base of his dick, tying a noose. There’s a tug, Jensen’s hand somewhere at the end of the rope, and Jared jerks in his ties, feeling the threat.

He’s sweating, already. He wraps his fingers around the chain, taking a deep breath. Jensen’s hand, on his belly, firm and flat, and he—yearns, arching up into it, and Jensen slaps him then, not on his face but low on his stomach, hard enough to sting, and he jolts, caught in his bounds.

Jensen starts with his hands. Slaps on the stomach, on the back of his spread thighs. Hard, but not bruising, and the sting gets to Jared, worms into that part of his head that says this is good, that this is what he wants. He’s panting, never gagged because Jensen says he likes to hear the noises, and he’s getting hard, chubbing up where his dick’s been half-hard all night anyway. "Mm," Jensen says, approving, and the mattress shifts as he crawls up onto it, and then he smacks Jared again hard on one nipple, and then the other, and Jared jerks his arms, and in response there’s a tug on the rope around his dick and he does yelp, then, instinct taking over.

"Yeah?" Jensen says, easy, and cups his balls in a warm hand, rolling them. Threat. Jared arches his back, his knees trying to close on instinct but unable to. Warm air—breath—and then a kiss, on his sack, and then a kiss on the underside of his dick where it’s straining so hard against his belly—his dick jerks, eager and dumb—and then a shift and Jensen flicks his balls, two fingers, short and tight, and Jared yelps again, his hips surging to get away as much as they can. Jensen shifts fast, laying an arm heavy over Jared’s stomach, and switches to slapping him—quick sharp taps against his balls, against the sensitive underside of his dick, fast and stinging, and it fucking _hurts_ and Jared’s so hard he’s leaking all over his belly, sticky touches as his dick bounces back from another blow.

Jensen always uses his hands, not toys like Jared prefers, and it makes it more personal, hotter, rougher. He scrapes his nails down the spine of Jared’s dick and Jared shudders all over, his skin rippling with the threat, and when he reaches Jared’s balls he pinches the skin, sharp biting twists between his nails that are making Jared’s thighs quake. Fuck, he’s hard, he’s so hard, and the whole universe seems to have narrowed down to the damp darkness behind the blindfold, the total mixup of hurt and wanting that’s pulsing from his dick and his nuts and his belly, the pit of his gut aching—wanting it to stop, wanting it to keep going. "Jen," he gets out, through his panting, and in response Jensen slaps him hard, harder than stinging, a twinge of nausea jolting through his gut, and he howls then, and grits his teeth through another when Jensen does it again, and again.

"Fuck, you’re so good," Jensen says—inexplicable—Jared pants up at the darkness, hips shifting futilely—and then there’s a wet slick hand on his dick, pumping it easy, slipping down to his nuts to cover them up too, soft and warm and wet. He moans out loud, brain entirely offline, and so somehow he doesn’t expect it when his dick’s pressed flat against his stomach and spanked again, three hard smacks down the spine to the base of his nuts, and he’d curl up into the fetal position if he could.

"Fuck," Jensen says again, fervent, and then there’s a shudder, the mattress shifting, and Jared hears a zipper—rustle—and then Jensen’s straddling his chest, warm familiar weight. "Eat me out," he says, no-nonsense, and then—oh—sitting _that_ way, and there’s his ass, soft skin against Jared’s chin, and he breathes out hot and then noses in, blind, Jensen bent forward enough and his legs spread enough to help, and Jared licks and finds the short hair, the silk of skin beneath, and then—ah—his hole, and Jensen groans in that deep rich way he always does when someone licks him there that first time. He doesn’t have his hands but he doesn’t need them—he settles in, eating deep, no need for finesse because Jensen doesn’t expect it—he licks sloppy, breathing trapped and staggered, a muffled darkness of just doing what he’s told—and Jensen hums and slides his hands down Jared’s stomach and then there’s—a tug, at the rope around his dick, and Jared gasps. "What did I say," Jensen says, and Jared drags in a breath and keeps going, licking deep, trying to make it good, and below Jensen winds the rope tighter, the tug almost constant, a pulsing hurt that snakes up through Jared’s gut and makes him whine even with his face buried in Jensen’s ass, his fingers scrabbling uselessly at the chain on his cuffs.

"That’s it," Jensen says, somewhere Jared can hardly hear, and he scrapes his nails up Jared’s wet dick again and then Jared hears him jerking off, a steady schlick that makes him ride his ass back against Jared’s mouth, and he slurps and presses as deep as he can, his jaw aching, and Jensen makes a small deep sound and holds perfectly still for a second, and then there’s a burst of wet, over Jared’s chest, jetting down onto his belly, and he keeps going as best he can because he hasn’t been told to stop, and Jensen’s breathing fast up above him and twitching, his body jerking, and then there’s a slide of Jensen’s hand through the mess of jizz and he presses Jared’s dick down by the crown and slaps him whole handed, wet, three times in a row, makes Jared cry, and then he lifts off entirely, leaves Jared there to sob, shaken, hurting.

A minute like that, aching. He’s shaking, his chest shuddering. Can’t seem to stop. When a dried hand lands soft on his thigh he jerks, and cringes, and hears a _shh_ , gentle, and then there’s another hand on his ass, squeezing softly, and then—a wet careful mouth sinking down on his dick, the slick of it so warm, easy. The stung skin goes tight, his dick swelling all the harder. Soft bobbing, no teeth, and he’s shaking still, trying to lift into it but his muscles feel shot, his feet in the air and no way to brace. The mouth lifts off, goes to his aching balls, presses soft kisses over sack and then slurps them in, one after the other, a pulsing sweet suck that drags the pleasure over Jared like a vast dark wave. He gasps, gulping air, toes curling, and Jensen returns to his dick and swallows him deep, steady knowing pulls that turn everything that hurt into a drugging senseless pleasure that spools the orgasm out of him almost like a surprise—his dick jetting into the pit of Jensen’s throat, his balls lurching in their ache, and when he’s finally done his body’s been taken over by a fine shivering tremble and he feels like he can’t catch his breath, and that’s when Jensen climbs back up his body and kisses him, sharp nasty tang but soft, sweet, his hands stroking at Jared’s cheeks and throat and collarbone, and slowly Jared comes down, and the shaking stops, and he feels…

Jensen always takes everything off in the order he put it on. He’s achingly careful as he unties the rope around Jared’s dick and balls, and rubs his skin as he unknots the ties on his ankles, his knees, letting his legs stretch out slowly on the bed. He unlocks Jared’s wrists and presses a kiss to each one, but Jared doesn’t have the strength to do anything but leave them there, flung up over his head. A damp washrag, cleaning up his stomach, and even more carefully cleaning his dick, and he breathes deep in the darkness, accepting it. Finally there’s a softer cloth that lays over his hips, and a sensation of cold weight that seeps through it, and at long last Jensen’s fingers cup his head, slide through his hair and untie the knot of the scarf, and he keeps his eyes closed when it’s pulled off, the low light of the room barely seeping through his eyelids.

"You did so good," Jensen says, quiet, and kisses the sticky skin beside his eye where the tears kept leaking. "Does it hurt?"

"More than it’s supposed to, you mean?" Jared says, voice scratchier than he expects, and when he finally opens his eyes Jensen’s propped on one arm above him, in a soft t-shirt and boxers, his face soft and amused, tender. Jared works up the herculean strength to drag one hand down, cup Jensen’s hip, squeezing. "I like that rope."

Jensen smiles, stroking his hair behind his hear. "No shit," he says, but it’s still soft, and he tugs just a little at Jared’s hair. "Shower?"

Jared snorts. "I think my bones turned to jello," he says, honest. He sighs, and looks down to see how much of a wreck he is. Not bad, really, although— "Anyway, I wouldn’t want my… peas to melt."

He raises his eyebrows and Jensen shrugs, unrepentant. "Couldn’t find the ice pack," he says, practical, and lays down, stretching out along Jared’s side, his head tucked against Jared’s shoulder and his arm slung warm over his belly. Jared cups the back of his head, feeling empty and clean as a cool sky after rain. It’s the best he’s felt in a while. When it’s Jensen’s turn, he hopes he can repay the favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/620757355374821376/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-silver9mm)


	17. SPN: weecest first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated E; pre-series, underage, first time, pining!Sam.

They’re just outside Wheeling, and Dad’s been gone for twenty-four days, and it’s friggin’ _cold_ outside but it’s going to be 1999 in an hour, and Sammy’s—

"Dude, are you _drunk_?" Dean says.

"No," Sam says, with affronted dignity. He puts his beer down in the snow and stands on one leg, easy balance. "See. _You’re_ drunk."

"Sure thing, squirt," Dean says, laughing, and Sam grins at him in a total unexpected bloom out of nowhere, and it warms his gut just as much as the bonfire’s doing. It’s not much of a New Year’s Eve, but he’s got himself with no broken bones, and he’s got Sammy smiling, and Dad’s in the wind but they’ve got a twelve-pack and bottle of five-buck champagne waiting and a fire, out back of the trailer, and things aren’t all right with the world but, shit, Dean’s known them of a hell of a lot more wrong, so. He lifts his beer in a little toast, to Sam’s balance and to the world in general, and kicks his boots out into the snow. "You let me know if we’re up too far past your bedtime."

Sam sticks his tongue out, kinda proving Dean’s point, but hell. He’s cheerful, which can get in short supply most days. No school to miss, with everything closed for the winter break, and Dad’s top-secret-no-sons-allowed hunt’s been keeping the boat unrocked, since Dad pretty much just calls Dean every few days to check in as proof of life, and so it’s just been them, and the woods out here, and the trailer. No job in this town, but Dad left enough cash that they’re floated for a while, and Christmas was pretty lame but Dean made a mega-batch of brownies from a box mix that turned out pretty good and Sam nearly ate his weight in ‘em, and there was enough cash left in Dean’s budget to do New Year’s right. Sammy’s even unbent enough to have some drinks, which frankly Dean’s surprised didn’t take more wheedling, but Sam shrugged and said, "It’s traditional, right?" and Dean could’ve just hugged him, but he settled for a noogie instead.

Sam’s still insisting on his sobriety. Dean can’t stop laughing, from his tree-stump that’s serving as a seat. "Shut up, watch," Sam says, and does the whole rigamarole of the DUI stop to prove it. Walks a straight line, and stands on one foot, and recites the alphabet backwards while touching his nose. "See?"

"Sammy, how the hell do you know all that stuff?" Dean says. "You drunk-driving when I’m not around?"

He keeps holding his balance, looking up at the dark sky with his finger still on his nose. "DARE class, when we were in New Mexico," Sam says, and finally drops the stance, shrugging. "Figured it couldn’t hurt to be good at it, just in case."

Just in case. Dean’s little brother, ladies and gents. "You’re such a freak," Dean says, glad, and Sam rolls his eyes but stumps over through the snow in his too-big boots, shaking his empty can. "Oh, and now you want a refill?"

"How long until we can open the champagne?" Sam says, practical, and Dean checks his watch. 47 minutes. "So, beer," Sam says, and Dean shrugs, and gives him one.

"All right, short stuff," Dean says, getting to his feet. He really is getting kinda tipsy—five beers to Sam’s two, that’s maybe understandable. "One thing about being a Winchester—you gotta hold your liquor." Sam snorts, which Dean ignores. "Second thing, though, is that no matter what, you gotta be able to handle yourself. No matter what."

"You said no matter what twice," Sam says, helpfully, and Dean tugs his hat down over his face.

"So," Dean says, and hops inside for their pistols, and a box of rounds. When he comes back out into the cold Sam’s resettled his hat and his face is pink and his eyes bright, and Dean does hug him then, a one-armed sling around his neck that makes Sam squawk but drags him all warm and bony up into Dean’s side, and then Dean drags them to the other side of the bonfire, where the light starts to fade as the trees encroach on the yard. The fence is kinda falling apart, but it’s steady enough to hold their empties.

Dean sets it up while Sam’s making skeptical-face. "You’re making me do training _now_?" Sam says, and Dean jumps back over through the deeper snow, crunching into the holes he already made. "Dude, this is lame."

"Dude, it’s gonna be _great_ ," Dean says, "because check it out: every can you take out, you get to take a drink!"

Sam sighs, like he’s aggravated, but he’s just being fifteen, because he’s grinning right after. Dean stands a pace behind him while he loads, professional, checking his weapon right just like Dean taught him—and he lines up, skinny shoulders square, and sights along his strong arm just like he’s supposed to. Shot—whipcrack sound that ricochets through the clearing—and— "Yes!" Dean says, punching Sam’s shoulder, and he grabs their beers and toasts Sam, clunking the cans together, and even Sam going _wait, you don’t get to drink yet!_ doesn’t dim Dean’s cheer.

"Okay," Dean says, waggling his eyebrows, "my turn," and Sam squints at him thoughtfully and then stoops and flings at handful of snow at Dean just as he’s lining up to fire, and he sputters and the shot goes wild into a tree, and he yells "Dude!", scraping snow off his face, but Sam’s dancing backwards, laughing, saying, "Hey, you never said that was against the rules!" and oh, it is _on_.

Snowball fights aren’t supposed to involve gunfire, Dean’s pretty sure, but sometimes the Winchesters play on different rules than other people. All bets are off after Dean dumps a handful of snow down Sammy’s jeans when he’s aiming for his next can, and Sam’s girly-ass scream could probably be heard down at city hall. Dean makes his next shot even with Sam jumping around behind him making crazy monkey noises, and he drains his beer that time, and watches Sammy do the same. There’s a brief stand-off when Dean’s got two snowballs packed and ready, tossing them back and forth between his gloved hands, and Sam keeps watching him instead of raising his pistol to fire—solved when Sam raises—Dean throws—Sam immediately ducks and rolls forward in the snow, and fires closer—and totally misses, but Dean’s so impressed at the shitty attempt at ninjahood that he says Sam earned a drink anyway, and before long they’re laying on the ground, laughing and breathless, the cans all shot and the beer mostly gone, things pretty much perfect.

"How long," Sam says, and Dean checks his watch.

"Eight minutes," he says. Sam hums, sits up. He’s still got on his hat, somehow, but his nose is bright pink with cold. "Damn, kiddo. You’re gonna turn into a popsicle."

Eyeroll, very obvious over Sam’s shoulder. "You’re the one who’s not wearing a hat," he says, and Dean shrugs. Some things are just too dorky. When Sam’s a little older he’ll know it. "Anyway, whose fault is it that I’ve got snow in my boxers."

"Um, yours," Dean says, and Sam raises his eyebrows outraged and Dean says, "Hey, you started it, squirt," and Sam says, "Only because you cheated first!" and Dean scoops a little clump of snow up and tosses it at Sam’s head, and Sam squawks and launched a full out tackle at Dean, and it’s on, yet again.

Sam’s wriggly and he’s got the bony elbows, but Dean still has five inches on him and the reach to match, and also he’s been fighting dirty _way_ longer. He gets Sam pinned in pretty short order, an armbar over his chest and Dean grinning down into his face, and Sam puffs in irritation but then melts back into the ground—Sam’s special way of losing where somehow he tries to make it seem like it was always his idea, and he doesn’t care, anyway. "Uncle?" Dean says, and Sam says, "Whatever," and Dean roll his eyes but sits up, straddling Sam just in case he tries anything else, and checks his watch again.

"Hey, one minute!" he says. "Got any resolutions planned?"

"Yeah," Sam says, quiet. Different, to his usual moody Sam-ness, and Dean frowns, looks at him. His face is still all pink, nose and cheeks and what Dean can see of his ears where his hat’s not tugged down, and he doesn’t look—sad, or anything. Sam licks his lips, looks back at him like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know how to get it out.

"What?" Dean says, and Sam’s mouth twitches, and then he grabs Dean by the lapels of his leather jacket and pulls him down, and kisses him.

Dean catches himself with one hand in the snow to stop from toppling forward. He hovers there, shocked, and Sam—Sam holds on tight, presses their lips clumsily together. Like he has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s determined to do it anyway. "Sam," Dean mumbles, brain still not quite together, and Sam huffs against his mouth and kisses him again, this weird smoochy noise that makes it really click in Dean’s head—Sam, kissing him. Sammy, _kissing_ him. He blinks, pushes up, and Sam lets him go, back in the snow, face bright red and his mouth set like he knows he’s lost a bet but is determined not to care.

"Sammy," Dean says. Everything’s static, two-am test pattern in his head.

Sam looks at him, then at the fire. "Midnight," he says, and Dean glances at his watch to see that—yeah, jesus, it’s midnight, happy 1999, and Sammy fucking kissed him in the snow and that’s not—

"I just wanted to," Sam says, quiet. Dean sits there, uncertain. "Just one thing, for me. Doesn’t have to be a big deal, Dean."

"It doesn’t?" Dean says, and Sam gets redder somehow, his face all washed-out warm in the firelight, and Dean thinks—just one thing. For him. For all those days and days of curling up on the fold-out together and elbowing each other through Escape from LA and Sam falling asleep in the curve of Dean’s arm, that time, and Dean touching his cheek and thinking—wondering—

"Can we open the champagne?" Sam says, fake cheerful, pressing his hands down against the ground to squirm backwards, to get away, and Dean leans down and kisses him right—full contact, spreading himself over Sam’s body, a hand on Sam’s cheek and pressing Sam’s mouth open, wet touch of beery heat and Sam full-on gasps against Dean like a girl having her first time, and Dean pulls back for a second, turned upside down, inside out. Sam shudders, grabs at him, says his name.

"Sammy," Dean says back, and then, weird and raw, "you never did this before?"

Sam stares at him, four inches away. Shakes his head, and the ends of his hair are wet with snow, clinging to his cheeks, and Dean licks his lips and tastes—beer—and tugs Sam up, and over, and when he sits down on the stump Sam collapses into his lap in total and ongoing surprise, like having started this he had absolutely no idea it could go further. "What?" he says, dumb, which is a nice change for once, for Dean to be the one who knows what’s going on, and Dean says, "Shut up, Sammy," and tucks his hands on either side of Sam’s jaw and kisses him again, and again, soft and slow like he learned to do with the nervous chicks, and Sam just melts into his lap, grabbing at him awkward but eager. Wanting, and that’s just—Dean can’t think about that.

He gets an arm around Sam’s waist, keeps him close, and Sam squirms, his weight shifting in Dean’s lap. "Yeah?" Dean says, and his dick—jesus, his dick’s on board, has been, rocking a half-chub since Sam started wrestling with him but he’s been able to put that away—has always been able to put that away—only this time he doesn’t have to and it’s got his head spinning, his body moving on weird autopilot, since Sam wants it, Sam’s been wanting it. He grabs Sam’s ass and Sam jerks, gasping into his mouth, and Dean squeezes, instinct telling him that that’s a good thing, a good turned-on sound, and Sam shivers and his hips push back, and then cringe forward against Dean’s stomach, and then he jerks and says, "Oh," soft, and Dean doesn’t get what that means until Sam’s hiding his face in Dean’s shoulder, shaking, and Dean realizes that Sam came in his pants, just from Dean touching him and having him in his lap, and his whole body feels like it about catches fire, right then.

Sam’s still quivering, though, and Dean’s not a dickhead. "Sammy," he says, and tugs off a glove with his teeth to touch Sam’s bare skin—his neck, exposed to the cold, and the silky hair at the base of his skull.

"I didn’t—" Sam mumbles, clutching at Dean’s coat, and Dean doesn’t know what that means but he’s got a lot of experience reassuring his little brother, and even if this situation is—insane—world-ending maybe—well, he knows what to do here.

"Probably got jizz on my jeans, freak," he says, super soft, and Sam pulls back and looks at him horrified, and then sees his expression and punches him in the shoulder, hard. "Ow," Dean says, obligingly, and then touches Sam’s jaw, easy. "Hey. It’s cool."

"Is it cool?" Sam says, echoing, and Dean bites the corner of his mouth, knowing he doesn’t really have an answer. Sam snorts, bitter. Dean doesn’t know if he was ever so bitter. "Yeah, see? I—I shouldn’t have—"

"Shut up, Sammy," Dean says, again, and Sam looks at him, miserable. Dean shrugs. "New year. We still got that bottle of champagne. We could go inside. Whatever—whatever you want to do, man. Night’s still young."

Sam stares at him. "Really?" he says, and Dean says, maybe more honest than he can ever remember being with anyone, "It’s all good with me," because—it is. For once. Maybe for the first time in Dean’s whole life—everything is completely, totally, bizarrely, freakily—good. He blames it on the beer, and on how Sam starts, even if uncertainly, to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/621038258647875584/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-petitgateau911)


	18. SPN: wincest, amnesia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated M; season 14, post-Michael possession, amnesia.

The gorgon hits Dean in the head and Sam panics because he always panics, when Dean’s bleeding and not responding, but that’s not the worst part. Dean’s bleeding and he won’t wake up, and Sam drives as fast as he can possibly drive—faster—and Sam carries him from the car to the bed and he still won’t wake up, and that’s not the worst part. Sam touches his face and the panic’s become this solid untouchable thing that fuzzes everything else in the world out to weird impossible static, and Dean flinches under his touch and seizes and he’s still bleeding because it’s a head wound, and head wounds bleed like a bitch but Sam remembers Dean telling him when he was fourteen and trying not to cry _it’s not that bad, Sammy, it always looks worse than it is, it’s just blood, it’s okay_ —only it is bad, and it’s worse than it looks. Michael drains out of Dean’s body with the blood like a cracked bottle of whiskey spilling all over the floor, and Michael takes Rowena, and Michael kills all the refugees who were Sam’s responsibility, and Jack then kills Michael—kills Michael, the monster haunting Dean’s eyes and Sam’s dreams gone in a flash—but that’s something Sam can’t look at, right now—because Dean sits up in the infirmary, shocked and blinking and scared, and he says to Sam, "Sam?" but he looks around too and says, "What is this place?" and he says, "Sam? Sam, what happened? Where are we?" and Sam closes his eyes and thinks, no. No.

It’s a week, of taking care of the bodies. Trying to contact any friends they had, who might’ve known them from that other world, who might want to come and stand witness to their burning. Dean helps, because he has two hands and no matter what it seems that an essential part of him wants to be useful, but he doesn’t feel it. Not really. Sam chops wood and sets Dean to building, and Dean does, and sneaks uncertain looks at the strangers who sit miserable in their home, stands just behind Sam’s shoulder during the funerals, says constantly: _who are they? what happened? Sam? Sam?_

Sam doesn’t know what happened. Cas has examined Dean (Jack wanted to but they didn’t let him, uncertain of his raw golden-grace power), and Sam’s been as gentle as he can with his questions, and they called back Rowena, even, from her terrified flight, and none of them have an answer. Dean knows Sam, and nothing else. Not Castiel, not the bunker, not hunting. Not their mother, and Mary’s mouth trembled as she smiled at Dean, told him that it was okay, that she was sure he’d remember one day. She left again, that night, and Dean sat in Sam’s room and said, "Why can’t I remember," with his head in his hands, and Sam didn’t have an answer to that, either.

The funerals over and Sam can’t seem to ditch the smell of ash. Burning flesh. Like pork, singed on a barbecue, and it makes him nauseous in the middle of the night, makes him stand over his sink with his gut heaving but he doesn’t puke. He breathes, eyes closed, mouth filling up with spit, and walks the empty corridors of the bunker alone. Mom’s gone and Cas is making himself scarce, looking for some kind of solution, and Jack’s odd and quiet in his room, and the scorch-marks on the concrete floors have long been cleaned up, and Dean—

Dean remembers him. Dean watches him, his eyes pinned to Sam the second they’re in the same room. Dean has his own bed but he doesn’t like it, finds it strange. Too warm, too soft. "Sammy," Dean says, miserable when Sam leaves him there, but Sam can’t take advantage and he doesn’t know what to do, with this brother who knows him and nothing else.

It wasn’t like this, before. The knowing drained out of Dean slow, little trickles. Words, processes. Forgetting a lamp, surprised by a cartoon. Forgetting his animosities and his histories and his training until he was just—blank. Sweet. Brutal, because he was forgetting himself and Sam at the same time, and even if Sam managed to save himself at the last second with Dean knowing what _brother_ meant—what it meant to them both—it was torture to see it slip away, piece by piece.

It’s gone entirely, now. Sam sits with Dean in the library and puts the tape recorder on, takes notes. "What do you remember?" he asks, putting his miseries aside, and Dean says, "You," sad, like that’s all that counts. Sam closes his eyes and Dean’s hand closes around his wrist, holding on. His hand is just as calloused as it always was even without the memory that proves the callouses were earned.

"Tell me anyway," Sam says, trying to smile, and Dean licks his lips, seems like he’s really trying to think.

"We’re from—Kansas," he says, uncertain, and Sam nods, encouraging. "We—we grew up together."

"Yeah, we did," Sam says. He lets Dean keep his wrist. The touch of his skin is—the same. Somehow feels the same. "You remember where?"

Flicker of worry, across Dean’s face. "There was a car," he says, uncertain still even though Sam brought him to the Impala on the second day when he realized what was happening, and Sam folds over the table, wants to cry.

"Sammy," Dean says, tender, and touches his hair. He cards through it soft, his hands gentle and knowing, and Sam shudders. He misses his brother so badly he could just crumple into the floor. Could sell his soul. Could just die, miserable here, and hope that when—if—he got to heaven, his real brother would be there, waiting, would say to him _crap, dude, took you long enough_ , and Sam could grab him in tight and hold him and it would mean everything it was supposed to mean, when Dean’s nose brushed his neck, when his hand cupped the back of Dean’s skull.

"I remember you," Dean says, and Sam pushes away—dinner to take care of, and watching Dean eat and barely picking at his own meal, and the bunker empty, empty, empty. Everything Sam had worked for disappeared, and his one stalwart, his one anchor—

Midnight and his door shoves open, startles him where he’s laying on his back, staring up into nothing. Dean, backlit—but the light white, not red—and Sam reins in his gasp and sits up and says, "What’s the matter?" and Dean comes in and goes to his knees in front of Sam’s feet and says, "Sammy, I _remember_ you."

He’s staring up, earnest. His eyes clear, green as green even in the dark in here, his focus entirely and utterly on Sam. "I know you do," Sam says, sore, but Dean grips his arms, shakes his head.

"You _don’t_ ," he says, urgent as a little kid, and it twists in Sam’s belly, makes him look away, but Dean holds him tighter, doesn’t let him get away—says—

"You were so smart, and you were so fuckin’ stubborn—my little brother but I wasn’t in charge of dick, because you’d just get your way no matter what, even if it came a way I didn’t expect it. You and me didn’t get along all the time but we had some stuff—movies we watched, and music we both listened to—and you can’t sing for shit but when you’re drunk you give it a try, and you sound awful but it just makes me happy every time I think about it because it’s when _you_ were happy and I know that’s about the best thing that can happen to me. When you’re happy. I know I—fuck up a lot, and I say crap I shouldn’t say, and I don’t know what it’s about but I remember the times you started to look—shit, like you do now, and it feels like crap but I don’t know how to make it right. Sammy, I don’t know how to make it right."

Sam feels like crying. Dean’s hand grips his shoulder, touches his chest. "Sam, I remember you," he says, thick and true, and Sam reaches out and gets a hand on the back of his skull, his fingers sinking into the thick soft buzz-short hair, the warmth that feels right even if nothing else does. "Sam."

"What else do you remember?" Sam says, aching, and Dean says, "I remember when you came back, but I don’t know from where, and it was like—it was like the friggin’ continents were all upside down and then got turned right side up, and you were pissed as hell at me and I figured probably I deserved it but I didn’t care, it didn’t matter because Sam was here, and I know—Sam, I know I’m not right, I know things might be bad, and I’m gonna try to get right because I know I’m supposed to be your partner or whatever, but I—man, I’m going nuts, because I’m here, and you’re not."

His hand hurts, gripping so hard on Sam’s shoulder. Sam breathes. "I’m here, Dean," he says, and Dean says, touching his jaw, sad and clear, "You’re not, you’re not," and he leans up and kisses Sam then, soft and on-target in the near-dark. His mouth, and his smell—Sam cups him closer, grips his t-shirt and hauls him up, closer, his body warm and familiar and right up against Sam’s, his hands rough and firm, his breathing the thing Sam wants to sync his body to, every morning. Dean kisses him short and quick and soft, pulls back and breathes and does it again, and again, and then shoves at Sam’s shoulders and makes him fall back to the bed and then crawls up, covers Sam’s body, cups Sam’s face in his hands, kisses him melting and sure and with his lip catching chapped against Sam’s lip, and Sam holds him so tight he’s sure it hurts and then pushes him back, a handful of inches to breathe, to think.

Dean looks at him, brow furrowed, close. The light from the hall rims his ear in clear golden light. "The only thing that matters is you, Sammy," he says, quiet.

Sam feels like his body’s collapsing, in some essential way. Infrastructure, demolished, a cold and dusty ruin left behind. He runs his finger along the back of Dean’s ear, traces the warmth down to the steady, certain beat of Dean’s heart. "Us," Sam says—corrects—gives up, and Dean slides his hand into Sam’s hair, smiles, and it’s not right, and it’s not the same. Sam closes his eyes and draws Dean in anyway. He’s not here, but he can fake it, for the brother he’s lost—the bloody history that made him Sam’s—for the hope that maybe one day he’ll be here again, pained and grim and inextricable from the blood and meat that’s made up Sam’s life. Dean pulls back after a while, sweet and hopeful. Unfamiliar. Sam smiles at him, and kisses Dean dishonest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/621224845087309824/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-nigeltde-fic)


	19. SPN: Sam/Dean/Jack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/Dean/Jack. Rated M; season 14, established relationship (wincest), implied sex.

After the craziness of their Halloween hunt, it’s good to be back in Kansas. Dean isn’t totally whole, probably won’t be for a while—Sam knows what it’s like to be possessed better than just about anyone else alive, he knows what the aftereffects are. Still, the hunt—getting out of his room, getting away from it all—Sam knows that it helped, too, and Dean’s happier on that drive home than he’s been in weeks, and even the crowd of cars parked up in front of the bunker don’t dim his grin, still wheedling Sam to try to get him to agree to a couple costume, for some future Halloween Dean’s thinking they might both see.

"Daphne and Velma," Dean offers, parking the Impala in her pride of place down in the garage, and Sam squints at him, trying not to laugh, says, "Which one of us is Velma?" and Dean says, reproachfully, "Sam, please take this seriously," and Sam looks around the empty garage, and pulls Dean in by that stupid plaid jacket, and kisses him soft, right there, because they’re—home. They’re finally home.

Dean blinks at him, when he pulls back. Surprised, uncertainly pleased. They haven’t really messed around, since he got Dean back from Michael. There was that first night, desperate and pressing together, and they had to be near-silent and it was more of an insane desperate renewing of something they’d both always promised each other than something that actually felt good. Otherwise—Dean too hurt, and trying to pretend he wasn’t, and the bunker too full, and things not right. Things still aren’t right but Sam thinks they can both live with them. "Think I’ll take a shower," Sam says, pulling back to his side of the bench seat. "Then—my room?"

Dean breathes, presses Sam’s hand low on the bench where no one would be able to see, even if there were someone in the garage with them. "Sounds good to me, Sammy," he says, and Sam squeezes his thumb, and gets out and heads into the bunker, smiling at the few refugees he sees, thinking—this is it. They really are home, at last.

Not all that many people around, really. Mom’s gone, like she usually is anymore, and Sam’s long-since reconciled himself to it. Cas in the wind, too, and what’s left is a half-dozen of the people Sam’s been training who aren’t on hunts, and he and Dean got back late enough that most of them are in bed, anyway, in the bunked-out rooms they reserved for themselves. Just Roland left up, manning the phones and watching Friends reruns on Netflix, and Sam waves at him but doesn’t stop, because—because Dean’s going to be waiting for him, and that knowledge is a heavy beating thrum in Sam’s blood.

Shower room’s empty, thank god. Sam strips out of the nerd gear, drops it all on the bench below the towel rack. Under the showerhead, that instant blast of heat and pressure carving the lingering worry of the hunt out of his shoulders, and he stands there for a second, soaking. Imagining. Dean, in his room, in the gold light. Dean’s skin under his hands. Everything else falling away. He drags his hands through his hair, decides to wash it another day because he can’t wait another ten minutes, and when he turns around under the stream of water there’s—Jack, standing there in his pajamas and bare feet, watching him.

Sam starts, moves a little out of the water. "Jack, hey," he says, smiling—a little awkward, he bets, but Jack probably can’t tell. The showers are old-school open pans, not exactly private, but most people know not to just come in and watch when someone else is using them. Then again, Jack’s not most people. "You all right? Thought you were asleep."

"I’m okay," Jack says, and smiles. A little wan, maybe, a little pale, but he’s been different since Lucifer stole his grace. Sam’s still rinsing off suds, and Jack tracks his eyes down Sam’s body—deliberate, really looking, and Sam goes still. Jack nods, like he’s made a decision, and looks Sam in the eye. "Sam, I’d like it if we could have sex."

Sam drops his washcloth with a splat. "What?"

Jack smiles, soft. "I thought that might seem weird," he says, easy, but he also—strips off his t-shirt, and his pajama pants, and then he’s—jesus, naked, all of him right there, and he steps up into the shower pan and walks closer, makes Sam back up against the wall out of pure shock. "I know that isn’t the way our relationship has been going, but I think it’s something I need."

"Jack," Sam starts, and can only—laugh, kind of, like it’s some weird demented joke. "Buddy, this isn’t—I don’t understand. What’s going on?"

A tiny beat. Jack licks his lips. He’s not in the stream of still-running water and his body’s all smooth, pale. Perfect. Sam glances down, can’t help it, and Jack’s dick isn’t hard—just another perfect piece of him, soft and pink and curved gently over his balls, in a sparse nest of fine hair barely darker than the golden hair on his head. Cherub, Sam thinks, not for the first time, and then Jack puts his hand square in the center of Sam’s chest, over his sternum. Sam hitches in air, completely thrown. "I’ve just been thinking," Jack says, softer. "All of the—stuff. Humans get to learn all of this when they’re growing up, but I’m already grown up and no one would ever—no one would get that. Nobody understands."

"That’s—" Sam starts, and grabs Jack’s wrist. Soft, slipping under his wet hand. "You have to get to know people, Jack. Girls, or—or boys, I guess. Your own age, you know? This stuff doesn’t just happen automatically."

"No one else is sixteen months old with a fully functional body and brain," Jack says, reproachful, and Sam doesn’t have a lot to say to that, but then Jack’s mouth twists, somehow—sad. "I just want—I want to know what it’s like. At least once."

Sam frowns—what does that mean?—but Jack shakes his head, and moves in closer, and puts both hands on Sam’s chest. "Sam," he says, soft, and Sam should—should push him away, should demand answers, should ask why Jack doesn’t think he has other chances—only the door opens, and Dean says, "Sammy, what’s taking so long," and Sam looks up over Jack’s head to find Dean there in the bathroom doorway, mouth half-open, staring at them.

"Dean," Jack says, sounding glad. "You’re here."

"Yeah, I am," Dean says, slowly, and looks Sam in the eyes. He shakes his head, not knowing what to say. Dean’s in his undershirt, flannel pants, and he takes a step closer. "What’s up, kiddo?"

"I want to know what sex is like," Jack says, again, firm, and Dean’s face does a thing that’d make Sam laugh any other time. "I asked Sam, but I want to know from you, too."

"Kid," Dean starts, but Jack shakes his head, looks back and forth between them, says, impossibly, "I know that you both have sex. With each other, I mean. It shouldn’t be a big deal for you to show me."

"How did you know that?" Sam says, past the weird ringing in his ears. God, the shower’s still running. He shuts it off, and Dean’s just staring at Jack, his mouth set and his eyes narrow.

"My senses were better when I had my grace," Jack says, shrugging, and looks up at Sam. "Castiel said I shouldn’t mention it, but it seems like—you know what you’re doing." He looks at Dean, while Sam’s trying to dig himself out of the pit of what both of those statements mean. "I just…" he says, and he’s—so lost little kid, for a second. Immensely young, and sad, and Dean’s face changes again, settles.

"Why us?" Dean says, guarded.

Jack shrugs, again. He doesn’t even look turned on—just miserable, and there’s a wry curve to his mouth. "Who else could I trust?" he says, and Sam puts a hand on his bare shoulder. Something’s going on—something they should dig into.

Dean tips his head back a little, looks at Jack with full attention. His lips part, after a second, like he’s seeing something Sam doesn’t, and there’s a wash of compassion across his face. He looks up at Sam, and Sam thinks, something unlocking under his chest—this isn’t a good idea. They’re going to do it anyway.

*

The door to Sam’s room locks behind them. Silent, but Jack’s not nervous because he doesn’t know what to expect. Other than— "I watched a pornographic video," he says, and Dean closes his eyes and mutters _jesus christ_. "But it had a woman and a man, and I guess we can’t do those same things."

"Some of ‘em," Dean says, easy, and Sam leans his back against the door, holding his towel around his waist with what remains of his strength. Dean pulls Jack into the middle of the room, looks at him steady. "Jack. What are you—what do want to get out of this?"

Good question—better question than a lot of the ones Sam has. Jack frowns, seems like he really thinks about it. "I want to know—I mean, I’ve—with my hand," he says, unexpectedly shy. Sam drags in a deep breath, imagining it. "But I don’t know what it’s like with someone else. In books they say it’s better with someone who loves you. You and Sam have that."

Sam catches Dean’s eye. "Yeah," Dean says, gruff, and then turns his full attention onto Jack, and smiles. Small, but full of promise. "You say the second you want anything to stop, all right?" he says, and his voice is—Sam’s gut revs, because he knows that voice. Dean, when he’s not laying it on thick as a charmer but when he _knows_ someone wants him, and Jack blinks and nods, eager, and Dean lifts both hands and strokes his thumbs along Jack’s smooth jaw, gentle and easy, and then ducks and inch and kisses him, smooth and confident and simple, and Sam feels like the bottom drops out of his stomach.

Dean knows how to kiss. Sam knows that better than just about anyone, too. Jack makes a startled noise, clutches alternately at Dean’s shirt, his arms, and when Dean pulls back to let him breathe Jack’s chest is already heaving, his face all surprise. "Good?" Dean says, and Jack nods, more jerky than before, and Dean smiles at him, cupping his face. "Good," Dean says, and catches Sam’s eye, and Sam walks over while Dean kisses Jack again, smooth, and again, soft and constant pressure, and Sam thinks with a burst of total insanity—this is like when Dean taught him to kiss, what feels like a million years ago—and he walks up behind Jack and holds his waist, watches up close. Soft, but insistent, and Jack’s hand creeps up to Dean’s neck like instinct’s driving it, his mouth following Dean’s lead like he’s learned everything they taught him, quick and eager. Dean makes a small, approving sound, and runs his knuckles over Jack’s cheek, and on the next press in he opens Jack’s mouth with his own and Sam _sees_ the wet glance of Dean’s tongue and Jack moans, startled, and Sam dips and presses a kiss to his neck, says, "God, that’s good, Jack—you’re doing so good."

Dean pulls back, mutters _jesus_ again—grabs the back of Sam’s head and pulls him down and kisses him, too, over Jack’s shoulder, and Sam’s pulled close enough that his dick presses into Jack’s ass, and he breathes hot into Dean’s mouth and rubs his thumb in that soft sweet spot just below his ear, and god, this is—weird, weird, so goddamn weird but it doesn’t feel _wrong_ , and Sam’s done a lot in his life that felt wrong and he knows the difference.

"Wow," Jack says, small, and Dean laughs, pulls back from Sam and cups Jack’s cheek.

"Wow is right," Dean says, warm with promise, and Sam knows then—whatever Jack wants, they’ll give him. They taught him everything else. It doesn’t have to be anything more than what it is. Anyway—it’s not like it’s something that’d come between Dean and Sam. Nothing ever will again.

Dean looks at Sam, expression as soft as though he heard the thought. "You ready for more?" he says, and Jack nods, so eager it makes Sam grin. Yeah, he’s ready. It’s going to be a good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/621121313976778752/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-butsamsd)


	20. SPN: wincest, BDSM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/Dean. Rated E; season 3, established relationship, established BDSM, dildo use, mild painplay.

Sam’s been grinding his teeth enough that he’s starting to get a tension headache. He closes his eyes, stretches his jaw. Breathes, and tries not to think about the future, but how can he forget? When he knows what’s coming. When it’s staring at him, all the time. Dean’s relaxed, or at least he’s pretending to be relaxed, and it’s not fair but Sam’s smart enough at this point to know not to expect fair, from his life. From his second life. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it—what he can’t get away from, what has him glaring at the gas pump while he fuels up, his mind a million miles and eight months in the future. Dean sold his soul for Sam to bring him back to life, and he’s going to hell on May 2, 2008, and Sam’s not supposed to be trying to stop it. He snorts, shifting against the car. Like hell, he thinks, clearly, and doesn’t give a damn about the irony.

Dean’s been ridiculous, since then. Throwing himself into hunts, throwing himself into life. His last year, he keeps reminding Sam, and Sam grinds his teeth but he smiles because—jesus, what the hell else is he supposed to do. He watches Dean drink irish coffee for breakfast and indulge his every whim, and last week they had a foursome with identical twins that made Dean so dazed-happy he could barely say anything but _awesome_ for the whole next day—and Sam can admit, after that, it was pretty awesome—but it’s grating at him, every minute. This thing coming, and how Dean’s lying to him, even if he probably doesn’t think of it as lying. It’s something building in Sam’s gut, in the pit of him. He works his jaw again, closes the Impala’s gas cap. He’s going to need aspirin, and something else, too.

Dean’s back at the motel, laying on his belly on the bed. They’ve been getting kings, lately, more and more. Dropping the pretense. "Hey, check this out," Dean says, when Sam closes the door, and shows Sam a glossy porno-spread—three girls, tits and tan flesh everywhere, and one girl has her fist, her entire fist—

"Dude," Sam says, closing his eyes, and Dean laughs in that lame _ha_ fake laugh he does when he’s just being annoying. Sam sighs. He brought back dinner—pizza, again—and they eat while watching a movie Dean wants to watch—dumb zombie shit, again, and Sam doesn’t actually care about that part, but he can tell Dean hoped it’d annoy him, too—and when it’s bedtime Dean comes out of the bathroom with brushed teeth and waggles his eyebrows and says, "So, Sammy, want to go see if we can pick up something tasty for dessert?" and Sam closes his laptop and his eyes, just for a second, and says, "Dean, get over here," in a voice Dean recognizes, and there’s only the hesitation of a second before Dean does it.

Sam stands up. Dean did what he was told, because—Sam still doesn’t know. He thinks about it, sometimes, in the shower or if he’s on a run, and it’s too weird and big to really look at straight-on. Dean’s standing there, in his socks and his minty breath and his looking up at Sam with total attention, like he does when they’re like this. Sam holds his jaw in both hands, looks back, and when he dips to kiss Dean he’s met with the usual soft eagerness, the way their mouths know each other. He bites Dean’s lip and feels the flinch, small, and how Dean curves up into him, holding his waist, his arm. "Get your clothes off," Sam says, and Dean sucks in air, blinks rapid, and Sam says, "get on the bed," and Dean does, stripping bare until he’s in nothing but his amulet, and he sits on the end of the bed expectant, waiting. Straining, his dick already halfway to hard, his attention still all on Sam.

Weird responsibility, when they do this. Weird something that surges up in Sam, too, to do it, and it felt—wrong almost, the first couple times, but he’s not afraid of it anymore. "You want to have fun, right?" Sam says, evenly, peeling off his shirt, and Dean’s lips part, his jaw flexing.

"Yeah," Dean says, after a beat too long. He watches the whole time while Sam goes over to his bag, starts digging through. Sam can feel the weight of it like a physical thing. "What are you going to do about it, Sammy?"

"Whatever I feel like," Sam says, and when he turns around Dean really is hard, his dick laying heavy against his thigh, his ears flushed red in the lamplight. Sam wonders if he cleaned up, cleaned out—if he was expecting something. Doesn’t matter. He comes back over to the bed and leans down and kisses Dean hard, open, licking in deep enough that Dean gasps, rocks backwards—has to grab at Sam’s arms not to tip all the way. Too bad—that’s how Sam wants him, and he shoves at Dean’s chest, makes him fall back, bouncing a little. He grips the polyester comforter, breathing hard.

They screw a lot more now than they used to. Making up for lost time, Dean said once, oddly soft in the morning, and—maybe that’s true. Means Sam doesn’t hesitate when he presses two fingers slick into Dean, when he follows them up fast with a third. Dean grunts, spreads his thighs wider. Sam holds one thigh with a too-tight grip and twists his fingers, watching Dean’s face—sees it, when he hits just the right spot, and presses harder, pulsing, makes Dean gasp and his hips rock into it, trying to flatten into the feeling. He makes a punched out _ah_ when Sam drags them free, and somehow he’s—surprised, his mouth a shocked o, when Sam replaces his fingers with the thick dildo, cool under its layer of lube, even though he saw Sam pull it out, even if he’s shuddered on it a dozen times, coming so hard it looked like it hurt.

It does hurt, going in. Sam tried it on himself, once, just to know what it was like. It is thick, a weird dark red, stretching Dean wide enough that his thighs try to close but Sam doesn’t let them. He’s stronger than Dean and they both know it. He doesn’t normally use it on Dean before his own dick but tonight he wants to see it and Dean’s not going to say no. "God, that looks good," he says, throbbing inside his jeans, and—god, it really does, Dean’s hole stretched and his balls drawn up high and neat above, his dick laying hard on his belly, his chest heaving. Sam presses it all the way in, all the way to the flared base with his hand flat against Dean’s taint, and Dean’s hips arch, his thighs flexing, with nowhere to go. "God," Sam says, again, and leans in to lick a sloppy path over Dean’s nuts, down his taint to where the rubber stops, and Dean yelps up above, moans, a hand touching Sam’s hair.

Sam hums, licks up to Dean’s balls again to suck one in—lets it go, with a soft pop—takes Dean’s hand out of his hair and gets Dean’s wrist tight in his grip, tugs. "Sit up," he says, and Dean breathes out at the ceiling and then struggles up, and Sam keeps the dildo tight in place until Dean’s shifted weight traps it inside, caught between his body and the bed. He’s panting open-mouthed, shifting on it, his knees spread around Sam’s shoulders. Sam kisses him, just a brief lick inside his pretty mouth, and then stands up, unzips. Brings out his dick, heavy and urgent in the abrupt cool air, and when Dean automatically reaches up Sam grabs both his wrists, makes Dean’s eyes leap to his face. He doesn’t say anything and Dean licks his lips, breathes and stares at him, heavy-eyed, and Sam tightens his grip, feels the shift of tendons. Dean shifts, and his eyelids dip—feeling the dildo shift too, or the grip, Sam doesn’t know—but he licks his lips again and leans forward the few inches, catches the hanging head of Sam’s dick his mouth—sucks, soft and wet, and then goes down, and Sam closes his eyes, pushes into it.

They trade back and forth, most of the time. Sam likes sucking Dean’s dick nearly as much as he likes fucking him, but Dean’s— _good_ at this, and Sam doesn’t pass up the opportunity when it’s presented. Dean devotes as much attention here as he does to fixing the car, to solving a case, and he opens up, easy, when Sam pushes in deeper, when he rocks his hips. Sam lets his head tilt back on his shoulders, purely indulging for a minute. Dean’s working—trying—bobbing his head, and using his tongue, and his fingers curl against Sam’s forearm while he sucks, a deep sweet pressure that’s thick in Sam’s nuts, curving tension through the pit of his gut. He fucks in a little sharper and Dean gags, gasps—swallows, when Sam squeezes his wrists, and goes back to it—and god, god, Sam loves this, loves Dean like this. He lets go of his wrists and holds his head, fucks in deep again, and when Dean gags again Sam pulls him off all the way, looks at his face red, and his lips redder, and the wet at the edges of his eyes. He’s still hard even with his dick neglected, and Sam says, soft, "Get up, but keep it inside."

Dean blinks at him, heavy. Sam doesn’t give him much room to stand, but he does, awkward—reaching behind himself to keep the dildo in, his face shifting, expression turning inward. Sam turns him around by the shoulders, pushes him forward again so he bends at the waist, and he balances himself on one arm, his fingers pressing the thick red plastic circle that’s splitting his ass. Sam pets down his spine, feels the sweat that’s started there—holds Dean’s wrist in one hand and keeps his fingers right there, and with the other he pulls at the dildo, shifting the thick rim of it inside Dean’s ass. Dean shudders, his fingers spasming, so Sam does it again, fascinated a little, his dick pressing against Dean’s ass, leaving a wet trail. "I wonder if I could fit inside, too," he says, mostly to himself, and Dean slumps, going down to his elbow, his wrist straining in Sam’s grip. Maybe, Sam thinks, dry-mouthed—one day—soon, it’ll have to be soon—because—

He groans, pushes. Dean crumples forward, and Sam shoves at him harder, picks his hips up bodily, moving him to the position he wants. On his belly, dick crushed in against the bed, and still holding the dildo in, doing what Sam told him—being good, obedient—doing what Sam wants, for fucking once—and Sam crawls up over him and drags the dildo out in steady gleaming inches, and when Dean’s empty and wet he pushes his dick inside immediately, no having to wait, no pausing to make sure it’s okay. It’s head-spinning, his dick gulped up immediately in wet-open heat, Dean’s asshole spasming, and he presses his forehead to the back of Dean’s neck for a moment just to listen to Dean gasp, just feeling it. Inside—together—Dean’s thighs shuddering, his ass arching back into Sam’s hips, his back curving. He reaches back, touches Sam’s hip, and Sam laces their fingers together for a second, holding, before he brings up both of Dean’s hands, holds his wrists against the bed. Reminding him, heavy and bruising, and Dean’s fingers curl into the blanket, a shiver going up him.

Sam kisses the back of his shoulder, squeezes his wrists. "Tell me," he says, quiet.

Dean’s face turns, against the comforter. His lips are so dark, bitten and wet. "It hurts," he says, raspy like Sam’s already got him moaning, and Sam fucks into him, groans, buries his face against Dean’s neck. It does, and it will—and after, Sam will be tender with him, will clean him up and bring him a beer and listen to Dean bitch, and Dean will curl against his chest in the night and in the morning his wrists will be dark with bruising, and it’ll be like a mark, like a claiming. An anchor, or so Sam hopes. He scrapes his teeth against Dean’s neck before he lifts up, braces his knees. He shifts his hips, rests his weight on Dean’s wrists, and watches Dean’s eyes close, his mouth open, his body waiting. Sam throbs. An anchor, he thinks again, and takes what he can. While he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/621296786012864512/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-an-anonymous)


	21. SPN: Sam/demon!Dean, a/b/o noncon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/demon!Dean. Rated E; season 10, noncon, non-traditional a/b/o dynamics, pregnancy kink.

Sam’s arm fucking hurts. It’s searing in his brain, nagging, and it’s not the most important thing right now but it’s hard to ignore. He’s managed to get the lights off and that red ambient warning is flooding the halls, and he’s pressed with his back up against the wall in archive room seven, trying not to pant, his hand sweaty on the knife. Dean’s out there, somewhere. He can hear crashing, in the distance, and he wonders what’s being broken. Maybe more than he can bear. His throat aches, as much as his arm, and he shifts against the wall, looks up at the ceiling. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. Dean wasn’t supposed to be able to break out. He was going to be cured, and Sam was going to hug him—maybe slap him upside the head after—and they were going to be okay, they were going to be a family again, and then—

"Oh," Dean says, and Sam flinches, stumbles—catches his sling against the shelf next to him, and his arm wrenches painfully so he’s stuck, long enough to see Dean smile at him, vicious. "There you are."

*

Things are black until they’re not. Pain’s the first thing that registers. Sam could do with fewer days where he wakes up and pain’s the first thing he feels, but then—it wouldn’t be his life, if that weren’t true. Pain, a band of hurt at the back of his head that’s throbbing, sore—Dean hit him, he remembers—and then his shoulder, oh fuck oh _god_ his shoulder, wrenched wrong and out of alignment, and he opens his streaming eyes to a bedroom, to his bedroom, and he’s—tied, with his wrists lashed up above his head, and he blinks and tries to orient, aching, and when the tears clear Dean’s standing at the foot of the bed, looking at him, and Sam realizes that he’s—naked. Oh, god.

"Took you long enough," Dean says. Smiles. "Been waiting. Can’t stand up from a rung bell anymore, Sammy?"

"Dean," Sam says, and shifts, wary. Dean’s watching him, narrow, still smiling, and Sam—Sam’s been able to smell him, of course he has, all day and all last night when he drove them from that shitty bar to here, Dean squirming in the seat and breathing hot about how it was his time, and didn’t Sam just want to pull over? Didn’t Sam want to take care of it? _Aren’t you a man?_ Dean had said, contemptuous in the rearview mirror, and Sam had swallowed down any response because—this wasn’t them. This wasn’t what they did.

"Been waiting," Dean says, again, tone different, and touches Sam’s ankle. Sam twitches but he’s tied there, too—looser, some give, but not enough to kick. Maybe an out. Dean squeezes his ankle, grins like he knows what Sam’s thinking, and then bites his lip. "Sammy, Sammy. All these years, we wasted."

"Don’t know what you’re talking about," Sam says.

He probably deserves the eyeroll. "Yeah, sure you don’t," Dean says, and starts peeling off his red overshirt, and then the cami, below that. His tattoo’s still in place somehow and Sam doesn’t know how that works—does it trap Dean inside, so he can’t possess anyone else?—but then Dean’s working on the button on his jeans, still smiling, still looking at Sam, and Sam swallows, brain derailed.

"It’s my time," Dean says, arch, and Sam breathes hard and says, "I know." Dean raises his eyebrows but god, it’s not like Sam doesn’t know. Dean’s always been pretty regular—heats twice a year, like any other halman, and when Sam realizes that Crowley had him—had him _now_ —it was something nauseating, vile.

"You been keeping tabs on me, Sammy?" Dean says, and unzips, and shoves down—jeans, panties, and there’s his—his clit, standing up hard, and the smell of him’s so much stronger now, thick in the air. God, he’s wet—has been for a while now, from the way it’s almost dizzy in Sam’s head—and he crawls up on the bed, settles with his knees on either side of Sam’s. Tilts his head, still smiling.

Sam’s never had a real preference between women and halmen—they’re both beautiful, both sweet in their own ways—but there’s something about halmen that does drag at something in his hindbrain. That big pretty clit, standing up like a little dick, and the way they get _so_ wet so fast, and during their heats the way his dick feels like something unworldly, powerful. Especially with how when Dean was in heat he always got so soft, so tender. Not so tender, now, with that demon mind lurking behind his eyes like shark-infested waters, but Sam’s dick is responding, anyway, plumping up against his thigh. Dean licks his lips and Sam shudders, and shudders harder when Dean settles a little higher up, his thighs soft against Sam’s. "Do you remember when you didn’t have a soul?" Dean says, and Sam closes his eyes, his jaw clenching. "You wanted me then, too."

"And you said no," Sam says, because—yeah, yeah, he remembers. Weird and awful, remembering, but he does. Dean as ripe and sweet and cloying in Sam’s throat as he is now, only Sam didn’t have a conscience and so he’d offered to fuck Dean through it, to make it good, and Dean had gaped at him and punched him and then slammed the motel door in his face, and the only reason Sam hadn’t broken the door down and raped him is that it would’ve been a lot of effort, and Dean would’ve been pissed at him, afterward.

Dean’s hand slips around his dick, now. Apparently a demon doesn’t worry about future ramifications. "Damn, it’s nice," Dean says, admiring, and then—wet—heat, and Sam slams his eyes open and finds Dean sucking soft at the head, watching for Sam’s reaction. He smiles, even with his mouth broken-open, and then closes his eyes and goes down—down—god, all the way down, like hardly anyone can manage with how big Sam is, and it feels incredible, his hips arching up, his cock wanting—blind idiot that it is, his whole body yearning for the soft fuckable _sweet_ body that’s right there, right there.

"Dean," he says, begging—for what?—and Dean pulls off wetly, licks his lips, breathes at him and says, "Don’t worry, Sammy, I got you," and it doesn’t sound like it has all those other times, not protective and loving, it sounds—it sounds _mean_ , but Sam’s dick stands up hard and Dean crawls forward, bumps his cheek against Sam’s, breathes hot against his jaw and below his hand grips and there’s the seeking bump of Sam’s cockhead slipping through all that wet, Dean soaked to his thighs with the slick he’s giving up, and then he pushes Sam up against the center and pushes, _in_ —

"Fuck," Sam says, groaning, even as Dean grabs his hair and moans, shoving his hips down, taking him all the way. God, it’s—so fucking good, so slick and silky-soft inside, the ring of his asshole tighter than a woman ever could be, because that’s where he’ll keep Sam inside—where he’ll hold him, close, right—

"No," Sam says, his brain coming back online, and he jerks at the ties holding his wrists, doesn’t care if it wrenches his shoulder. Dean brushes his lips against Sam’s jaw and sits up a little more, his ass shifting sweet and distracting, but not as distracting as that soft, cat-got-the-cream smile, the way his eyes are so pupil-spread dark he looks high. "Dean—Dean, no, we can’t do this. You don’t want this."

"You sure about that, Sammy?" Dean says, propping on one hand over him, and he flexes his hips, a solid sure stroke that feels fucking _insane_ , incredible. Dean’s eyes drift closed on the pleasure as he does it again, again, a slow gliding ride that’s setting Sam’s blood on fire, the feel of it—god, Dean always said he was good but Sam just rolled his eyes, didn’t think about it, because if he thought about it—

"Always knew your dick would be good," Dean says. His cheeks are flushed, his ears pink, his body alive and eager and wanting even if he should’ve been dead. Sam heaves for breath, watches Dean ride him. Fuck, it’s pretty, no matter how bizarre. Dean makes a soft sound, deep in his chest, his free hand moving to grasp Sam’s jaw, holding him in place. "Fuck, Sammy, you feel _so_ good," Dean says, somehow earnest, and Sam strains at his bounds, his wrists and his ankles, and enough give still at the ankles to get his heels into the bed, to get enough leverage to shove his hips up as Dean comes down, and Dean moans, rich and real, enough like the sounds Sam heard growing up, that he jerked off to growing up, that he can feel his knot starting, his balls clutching up, eager.

"That’s it," Dean says, groaning, throwing his head back, and Sam fucks up again and Dean practically yells, slamming his ass back into Sam’s hips, dips his head and brushes his mouth against Sam’s and breathes his air, hot and vile and good, so good, so good Sam can’t believe they waited so long, that he held out so long, that Dean pretended—that he meant—

"Wait," Sam says, cock-stupid, some last frail thing waking up—"wait, Dean—" but it’s—fuck, it’s too late, Dean squeezes around him and kisses him, licks inside rough and sweet and tasting like everything Sam ever wanted and Sam cringes his hips up, his balls aching, his heart sore, and he comes and comes and comes and his knot’s swelling up, filling Dean up, a crazy-intense ball of feeling that rockets up his throat and makes him snarl almost into Dean’s mouth, kissing him back, wanting—insane things, to be able to rip out of his ties and hold Dean down and make sure every pump of jizz creamed him up right, to bite at Dean’s nipples where his chest was still flat because he hadn’t made a baby—but they could, Sam’s gut reminds him, they could, and he groans, fingers flexing, arching his hips up, and Dean cries out and comes then, too, rippling around Sam so tight and sweet that he feels his knot give up even more come, everything inside so warm, so tight, so—

He pants hard, still going. His balls unloading everything they’ve got. "Mm, Sammy," Dean murmurs, wet lips brushing his stubble. He tugs at where they’re connected, his ass so tight, and Sam knows it has to hurt with how he’s swelled up inside but Dean only moans, soft and content, and it makes some twisted thing in the back of Sam’s brain go: yes. Yes.

"I knew it," Dean says, and Sam opens his eyes only reluctantly to find Dean propped over him. His hips flex, tugging again. His clit’s still hard, dragging against the low of Sam’s belly, and Sam’s mouth waters enough that he has to swallow. Dean’s mouth turns up at one side. His hair’s longer than it was and it’s falling over his forehead, and Sam just wants to—touch it, to comb it back from his face. To cradle him, the way a man should when he’s knotted up, when he’s done his job.

This isn’t his lover, though. It’s Dean. Sam swallows, his gut turning over even with his cock still buried up deep. "I’m sorry," he says, to the Dean who’s not here. To the Dean he’s trying to save.

"I’m not," Dean says, and while he’s looking at Sam he smiles, and his eyes flood from a horny heat-ridden darkness to full black, from edge to edge. Sam jerks—shocked every time but worse, now. Dean tilts his head, clenches deep, and Sam gives up another spurt of come unwilling—his knot still full, creaming Dean deep. Dean shivers, like he feels it, and his eyes slide back to cruel, knowing green.

"You think it’ll knock me up?" Dean says, sweet and vicious, and later—later, after Dean’s fucked him more and more, once he’s finally had his fill—after he falls asleep against Sam’s chest, and Sam works his wrists free achingly slow and gets away—when he comes back with that last syringe of holy blood and cures Dean, and Dean gasps awake under the blanket Sam’s thrown over his chest and squirms and feels himself full, and looks at Sam horrified—later, Sam will lay in the Impala’s backseat, trying to sleep, and he’ll wonder. All that undeniable biology, working its way deep.

"You’re going to dream about this," Dean promises, sitting up and pushing Sam up inside, deep, and Sam clenches, lifts into it. Knows it’s true. Aches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/621310107140161536/in-support-of-black-lives-matter)


	22. SPN: wincest, Stanford discussion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/Dean, dealing with Stanford. Rated M; bunker era, established relationship.

Dean’s cooking—kind of, in that he’s stirring boxed pancake mix with some water—and Sam’s on the phone.

"No, I think that sounds great," he’s saying. "Seems like the essay matters a lot depending on the school you’re hoping to get into, but your test scores and grades are obviously big, too. How did you do on the SAT?"

This isn’t a conversation that they’re on speakerphone for—Sam’s easy at the kitchen table, the phone to his ear and his laptop open in front of him, and when Dean turns around with the bowl of mix he looks at Sam’s shoulders, turned away, and chews the inside of his cheek, and puts butter on the griddle.

"Definitely," Sam says, to something Dean can’t hear. He laughs, quietly. "I think Jody could probably do as well as I could, but let me know if you need more help. Sure thing."

He hangs up, shakes his head. Dean pours a neat circle of batter onto the griddle, listens to the hiss. "How’s Alex?" he says.

"Applying to schools," says Sam. Like that wasn’t obvious. He glances at Dean over his shoulder with a small smile, turns back to his laptop. "Jody made her call me because she was convinced she couldn’t get in anywhere with a sketchy school record. Think I proved her wrong."

"Yeah," Dean says, and looks down at the pancakes. Bubbles starting and soon it’ll be time to flip. "She’s smart."

"Yeah," Sam says, absently, and closes his computer, stands up. "Those’ll be done soon, huh?" he says, and at Dean’s nod he says, "Cool, I’ll be right back—just want to get something sent over to Alex before we eat," and he’s gone, then, and Dean’s standing in the kitchen by himself, looking at pancakes, with no idea why his stomach feels as knotted up as it does. Except he does know, really. He flips the pancakes. It’s not worth thinking about.

It eats at him anyway. All day. Sam’s researching something-or-other to do with the Darkness, and Cas isn’t answering calls, and Dean—doesn’t have anything to do. He about drove himself into the ground, trying to come up with something, and Sam practically sat on him and told him he had to take some time away from it. They still don’t know what’s going on there, and going insane about it isn’t helping, and so he’s trying. He changes the oil in the Impala; he cleans the kitchen. He goes down to the shooting range and cores neat holes through the faceless targets and wants—a rot-eaten fence at the edge of the woods, and shooting up Coke bottles, and the sun beating down.

He takes a shower and when he goes to bed, Sam’s on the chair in his room, typing at something on his knees. "What are you doing?" Dean says, and Sam glances up at him, smiles at him in his pajama pants, but says, "Editing," and when Dean frowns he clarifies: "Alex’s college essay. Apparently it’s too embarrassing to show Jody." His eyes drop back to the computer screen and he shakes his head. "She’s got an interesting relationship with apostrophes."

Dean doesn’t have anything to say to that. He didn’t know apostrophes were something you could have a relationship with of any kind. "You going to be done with English class in my bedroom any time soon?" he says instead, and Sam glances at him, shakes his head again.

"Yeah—sorry, just didn’t want to wait on it," he says, and clicks something, and closes the laptop, dumps it on Dean’s dresser. He’s in pajamas too, that touchable washed-to-death shirt and the flannel pants Dean got him when his last pair got accidentally eaten by the dryer—Dean still maintains that that one wasn’t his fault—and when he climbs into bed he’s just—warm, and soft to the touch, and he settles like it’s natural against Dean’s back. Maybe it is natural for them, anymore. Ever since he got the mark off his arm they haven’t really bothered, with separate beds, and it’s—good. Better than Dean thought it’d be. He settles his head more comfortably on the pillow and Sam kisses the back of his neck, just—soft, not going anywhere with it, but it makes Dean’s gut tighten up anyway. Sappy bitch, he thinks, fondly, and then Sam sighs, slips his arm around Dean’s waist.

"She’s so excited, man," he says. Dean opens his eyes, looks into the darkness on the opposite wall. "It’s kinda cool, you know? She had this screwed up life and now she gets to get out of it—make something of herself."

"Lucky," Dean says.

Sam huffs, obviously smiling. "Her version of this will be a little easier, though," he says, "since she actually has—you know—a mailbox. No weird forwarding addresses and hoping she doesn’t miss an envelope. Seriously, lucky."

Dean turns his face more into his pillow, doesn’t answer. It’ll be easier for her, too, he thinks, without having to hide every part of it from her family—for her not to have to pretend it’s not happening—and when she leaves—

He closes his eyes, feels Sam’s bulk all up against his back. He’s here. Here, and he swore he’d always be, and Dean has to believe that. If he doesn’t, then what’s the point?

Apparently it’s application season. Sam calls Alex again the next day, talks her through some of the things he suggests she might change in her essay. She doesn’t have her sights set on the stars—no Stanford or Harvard or MIT for her—but she’s still nervous, wants to get it right. Sam snorts, when he gets off the phone, says, "Claire says she hopes they’ve got hairdressing electives at Minnesota," and Dean thinks, jesus, Claire. He shoves back, away from the table, and when Sam gives him a startled look he says, "Forgot, I was going to go to the store," and it’s a shitty lie but it’s the only thing he can come up with in that second—imagining Claire and Jody, alone in the house, and how it feels when three people turns into two—and then because he’s said it he grabs his coat and gets into the car and drives into town, and he knows he’s being an absolute dumbass but it comes like this, sometimes, and he can’t help it.

He’s nearly calmed down, by the time he gets back. "Got beer," he announces, which he did, and even crap for a salad for Sam, and stuff for burgers, and Sam helps him carry it into the kitchen and helps put it away, and then he grabs Dean by a jeans-pocket and traps him against the island with his hands on the counter either side of Dean’s hips, and he looks down at him square, and he says, "Why are you being weird?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Pot-kettle, Sammy," he says, and pushes at Sam’s stomach.

Sam doesn’t budge, though, and Dean looks away. "Dude, like I don’t know you," Sam says. He resettles his hands on Dean’s waist, squeezes soft. "Is it—are you having dreams, again? About the Darkness?"

He is, but that’s not new. He could lie and say it was that. "Nah, I’m good," he says, because he is—he really is, no matter how much of a spaz he’s being.

Sam doesn’t let him go, though, and Dean knows he’s frowning. "Then…" he starts, and seems to—get it, somehow, from Dean’s brainwaves or something, because he sighs and it sounds disappointed. "The college thing."

"It’s no big deal," Dean says, or tries to, because before he can really get the last word out Sam’s cupped his face in both hands and pulled him straight and is kissing him—shallow, precise like Sam can be sometimes—good enough that Dean grabs Sam’s hips, opens up to it, tilts. Sam’s mouth, taste of bitter coffee. Perfect.

When Sam pulls back it’s by a few inches, and when Dean opens his eyes Sam’s smiling at him, but it’s kind of—sad, or compassionate, or pitying maybe. Hard to tell. "You’re a bad liar," Sam says.

True, lately. Still. "You’re a bad liar," Dean retorts, and Sam rolls his eyes.

"Come here," Sam says, and Dean doesn’t want to, but Sam tugs at his wrist and Dean follows him—out of the kitchen, into the hall, and then into Sam’s room, where Sam kicks off his boots and sits on the bed, and when he holds out his hand Dean takes it, and is drawn up to… sit in Sam’s lap, his knees spread around Sam’s hips.

Not a position he usually takes, at least when they’re dressed. He raises his eyebrows and Sam shrugs. "Trying some positive reinforcement," he says, which doesn’t make any damn sense. The way he’s propped up against the headboard, Dean’s looking down at him, for once. Sam’s mouth lifts at one corner, his eyes all over Dean’s face. "Talk."

"This is dumb," Dean says.

"I agree," Sam says, but he squeezes Dean’s hips, soft. "But something’s bugging you. The college thing? It’s just a kid going to college, man."

Dean licks his lips. "I know," he says, and he does. "Alex is smart to get your advice. You’re the expert." He meant it to be light but it comes out—bitter, and Sam frowns. Fuck. Dean shakes his head. With how they’ve been he doesn’t want to be an asshole—they’ve been trusting each other, open, and he didn’t mean to screw it up. "I don’t mean—Sammy. It’s cool, it makes sense. I mean, you’re probably the only person who knows what she went through who also knows what they’re doing, with this kind of stuff. You’re doing a good thing."

Sam looks up at him, eyes steady. "I know," he says, after a minute. "But it’s got you thinking about—back then. When I left. Dean, that was—god, fifteen years ago or something."

"I know," Dean repeats, raw, and goes to push off Sam’s lap but Sam doesn’t let him. "Dude, give it up with the manhandling routine."

"No," Sam says, sitting up. He loops his arms around Dean’s waist and kinda smiles, in that Sammy way where it doesn’t so much look like a smile at all. "C’mon, man. You—seriously, do you still think about that?"

That night, in front of that busted-ass old house. Everything he’d been clinging to crashing down around his ears. Maybe not the worst night of his life anymore, but it’s still ranked. "It’s dumb," he says, which he realizes a little too late is more revealing than maybe he wanted it to be, with how Sam’s face changes. "Sam, it’s no big deal."

"You keep saying that," Sam says, quiet, and one of his cheeks sucks in, like he’s gnawing at it. He keeps holding on, like Dean’s a flight risk or something, and it’s—nice, sort of. Close like this, outside of just sleeping or screwing. Sam takes a breath and Dean feels the way his chest expands. "It’s one of the best things I ever did. Going to school."

Dean looks up at the ceiling, the slow-spinning fan.

"I got to just—live," Sam continues. "Exploring the world, and figuring out what I liked. Meeting people who weren’t hunters and learning stuff that wasn’t just how to kill things. I mean, obviously I know now it wasn’t going to go anywhere—I was never going to be allowed to be a lawyer, or live a normal life like I thought I wanted, but. I still wouldn’t change it."

Dean swallows, and tries to muster up how to be a man. "I get it," he says, and—he does. This he knows how to be honest about. When he looks back down Sam’s still watching him, total focus, and he tries a smile. "You needed to get away. Grow up a little. Anyway, you and Dad were probably gonna shoot each other if you’d been cooped up together any longer."

Sam snorts, leans back a little with his hands still locked at the small of Dean’s back. "Yeah, maybe," he says. "So—it was important. But I don’t think I got until—way later. How much it screwed us up. That it screwed you up. That—I wish I could go back, sometimes. Fix that."

Still watching. Sam’s whole laser-attention thing is annoying as hell, sometimes. "It was a long time ago," he says, shrugging.

"Right," Sam says, ironic. "That’s why you always think I’m gonna bolt the second there’s a pretty girl in a nice town, or there’s an ad for a college on TV." Dean’s jaw clenches hard enough that his teeth kinda hurt and Sam shakes his head, but he slides his hands up Dean’s back, too, a long stroke, and lifts up to kiss the underside of his jaw, tender. "You know," he whispers, "I’m taking an online class right now."

Dean blinks. "What?"

"History of the Meiji Era in Japan," Sam says. When he meets Dean’s eyes again he’s still smiling. "Undergrad elective through Michigan State. Really interesting stuff."

"You never told me that," Dean says. He shifts, in Sam’s lap, and does put a few more inches between them.

Sam sighs. "I know. Maybe—I don’t know. Didn’t want you to freak out. Can’t imagine why I thought that might happen." Dean nearly shoves at his shoulder, then, and Sam catches his arm, reels him back in. "Sorry," he says, and he actually does look kinda sorry. "I just don’t know how to convince you, man. You’re it, for me. No matter what kind of crap happens, or—whatever, how many planets fall down on our heads. It’s you and me, no matter what. A college class isn’t going to change that."

"I know," Dean says, and when Sam’s eyebrows crease uncertainly he shakes his head. "Dude. I really do. It’s—the same for me. You know that, right?"

"Come whatever," Sam says, softly, and Dean dips his head then and kisses Sam first, gentle because—because they can afford that, now. With the promises they’ve made, and what those promises meant.

When he pulls back Sam looks gratifyingly pink, in the hollows of his cheeks, and Dean shrugs one shoulder. "I’m just screwed up, Sammy," he says. "When it comes to you. Probably always will be."

Sam smiles at him, lopsided. "Guess that comes with the territory," he says. Dean snorts. Understatement. Sam licks his lips, looking up at him, and then—flips them, in the bed, rolling Dean underneath in a surge of show-offy muscle so that he’s propped up on his elbows, his body solid in the cradle of Dean’s body. He looks kind of smug about it, too, and Dean pinches his side and says, "show-off," and Sam kisses him soft, doesn’t acknowledge it.

"Maybe if Alex needs her dorm room demon-proofed, we can both help," he says, when he pulls back.

Dean tucks his hair back behind his ear, shakes his head. "We’ll teach her how to do it herself," he says. "She’s supposed to be a college girl, right? She needs to learn."

Sam nods. "Deal," he says, warm, and kisses Dean again, and they move on then, to better things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/621398153896378369/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-aspiringmehood)


	23. SPN: soulless!Sam/prostitute!Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: soulless!Sam/prostitute!Dean, time travel. Rated E; prostitution, dubcon (undisclosed identity), painplay.

Castiel’s pissed, Sam thinks. It’s hard to tell, these days. "Will you," he says. "Boy. How?"

Sam says, "I don’t know yet. But I will look until I find out, and I don’t sleep."

Castiel studies him. Sam waits, wondering in the part of his mind that does the calculation—the biggest part, these days—how he’ll fight Cas, if it comes to it. He imagines it. Pulling back his arm, throwing the punch—it won’t hurt an angel but it will be distraction—and Castiel keeps that sword in his coat, and if Sam has to—

"You are more trouble than you’re worth, sometimes," Castiel says, jaw clenching. Sam feels the corner of his mouth turn up. True. Cas shakes his head, and steps forward, and grips Sam’s arm—Sam clenches—

A whirl. Sickening, nausea thumping into the pit of his gut. A flutter and a taste like tin at the back of his tongue and he’s—it’s night—but they aren’t outside that shitty flophouse Dean had them squatting in anymore. They aren’t a they, either: Castiel’s gone.

A sidewalk, a city. A pedestrian hurries by and jostles Sam’s shoulder from behind, doesn’t apologize, and Sam considers grabbing the guy and demanding one but he’s busy orienting himself. It’s damn cold, but it’s not snowing. A city, and traffic flowing steadily down the street he’s next to; a Blockbuster video, to his right. A couple walks past him, looking out of place in this neighborhood—too much money for the trash gathered in the corners—and their clothes are—different. Boxier. The woman glances at Sam and gives him the quick up-and-down he merits, and her makeup is strange, too, in a way that tugs at his brain. He frowns.

A newspaper box, next to the Blockbuster. Big headline, about the Kyoto climate conference—the paper, the Philadelphia Inquirer—the date. December 2, the same day Sam thought it was. It’s the 1997 that gives Sam a faint, actual sense of surprise. It’s been so long since he felt it that it’s almost worth savoring.

He stands up straight, calculating. Thirteen years in the past, to the day; Pennsylvania, instead of Missouri. Sam’s always had a good memory but since losing his soul it’s been sharper. December, 1997, and Philadelphia. He remembers, now. He smiles. Maybe Castiel didn’t completely fuck him over, after all.

Old cars are easy to hotwire. He didn’t drive when he was fourteen but he’s always had a good sense of geography, and he remembers these streets. Castiel didn’t drop him too far away. Fishtown, past the Green Tree, and—yes. Little run-down houses, and then the narrow old place that had been split into three levels, stairs running rickety up one side, and—the Impala, parked in front. No truck, and Sam remembers that their dad spent most of his time gone, when they were here, letting Sam finish up the school year for once. They had the top apartment and when it got too cold the ice formed on the steps and it was murder, trying to get down them for school. Nine o’clock at night and Sam realizes—he’s probably inside. His younger self. Doing homework, no doubt, or defiantly reading. Trying to ignore how Dean was ignoring him, as he got ready for a date or to go out to a bar and leave him behind.

Pathetic, really. Sam shakes his head. All that defiance and for what. He wasted so much energy trying to pretend to be someone he wasn’t, to fit some bizarre image in his head of what he should be. What he actually hated was never the hunting—it was being told what to do, how to be. He hated being afraid. He ought to go in there, he thinks. Tell himself how little there is that can really scare you.

The door of that top apartment opens. Dean. Sam slouches back in the car seat and watches him trot down those deathtrap stairs, and walk—straight past the Impala. Moving fast, head down and his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, and Sam frowns. Doesn’t look like date night. He flips a mental coin, in his head—to start with his younger self, or his suddenly-younger brother? Not much choice, really. He can guess what he’d say, and he doesn’t necessarily want to see the look on his own face.

Easy enough to follow Dean, in the car. He’s heading for a seedier part of the neighborhood. Pawn shops, bars. He disappears into one and Sam parks down the street, gives an unimpressed look to the guy who assesses him for a mugging. When he gets inside the bar it’s—oh. Gay bar. Sam narrows his eyes, surprised for the second time. Not full sequins and Dorothy, but definitely more than colorful, and Sam’s vision adjusts to find Dean leaning over the bar, grinning at the bartender—getting served two shots, which he takes one after the other like medicine. Some things don’t change, apparently. That Depeche Mode song comes on and there are some cheers—the men dancing—and Sam works his way around to the far end of the bar in time to see an older guy, maybe the age of the Dean he knows, put a hand on the back of this younger Dean’s neck, and lean in and whisper in his ear, and Dean looks up at him and smiles, easy, and somehow—it isn’t a surprise, at all, when they head toward the back, disappearing through a black door. Sam sucks the inside of his cheek, thinking. Waves the bartender over with a stolen five from his stolen car, and asks, "Hey, that kid any good?"

Bartender gives him a look. Easy up-and-down. "Wouldn’t think you’d have to pay, honey," he says, and Sam smiles tightly to pretend like it was funny. He orders a shot, too, and lets the fire of it pour down his throat, and thinks, holy shit. All those dreams he had, all that pathetic longing, and he could’ve just walked down to this shithole and had his brother on his knees for a twenty.

In the hall to the toilets the music’s muffled and there’s a couple making out, already drunk, propped right next to the door. Sam pushes past them, checks the bathroom—another couple, this time snorting coke off the sink—but no Dean. He frowns and backs out. Another door—the alley, this time—and he thinks, jesus, is his brother that much of a cliche—and when he pushes through he finds out that, yes, he is. It’s dark out here—just enough light from the street to see the shapes of things. The older guy’s got his shoulders against the brickwork, and Dean’s on his knees with the guy’s dick in his hand, and Sam takes a second to calculate—Dean’s just pulled off, mouth wet, his eyes wide at being caught—the guy, not quite aware of what’s happening—and he makes a decision, and hauls back, and punches the dude so hard in the side of the head that he falls like a log. K.O. That was easy.

Dean jumps up, staggers back a step. "Buddy," he says, not exactly afraid even though he should be—ah, because he’s going for the knife in his belt. He’s fast at nearly-nineteen but Sam’s faster, stronger—better—and he grabs Dean by the forearm and spins him around, gets him against the brick right next to where the john’s collapsed on the ground. Presses him flat, threatening. Dean hitches air, shoves backwards, but he’s got no chance.

"Breathe," Sam says, kind of entertained. He’s been able to take Dean in a fight for years, but this is kind of sad. "Not planning to hurt you."

"Got a funny way of showing it," Dean says. He turns his face against the brick. He’s pale, his freckles harder to see. Not getting much sun, in Philly. He squirms, uncomfortable at Sam staring at him. "Dude, what do you want?"

"How much was he gonna pay?" Sam says. Dean stiffens, eye rolling to try to see Sam’s face. "Come on, it was obvious. What? Twenty bucks? Twenty-five?"

Dean doesn’t say anything and Sam sighs. He slides his hand down to exactly where Dean has always hidden his knife, and Dean flinches as he takes it away, tosses it in an easy arc into the dumpster a dozen feet away. When he turns Dean around, a forearm locked over his chest to keep him against the brick, Dean’s trying for bravado and it just… doesn’t work, at all. Sam’s eyes are adjusting to the light and he stares, watches Dean color up, pink flooding his cheeks, his ears going red, and god, Sam used to think he was so tough, so capable, at this age. This Dean might know his way around a weapon but he’s just a—child. A twink, girly and soft. Soft-faced, soft-puffy-lipped, those big soft glass-green eyes that can’t hide a lick of emotion—not like he’ll be later, when he stares at Sam and there’s a rough tangle there, and he spends most of his time trying to look away.

"How much for me?" Sam says. Dean blinks at him. Bambi, jesus. Sam smiles at him, sliding his other hand down Dean’s side, under the jacket. Skinny. Young. Dean’s mouth parts. "Fifty? To let me take you to a motel. Spend a little time."

Dean licks his lips. "You’re crazy," he says, which is probably a little true. Sam shrugs and Dean raises his eyebrows at him. "A motel?"

"Warmer than here," Sam says, which is also true.

Completely stupid, for Dean to say yes. "Okay," he says, and Sam smiles. How the fuck did he live through his teens. He releases Dean from the wall and sees him take a deep breath, and then he looks at the guy on the ground and bites his lip—and then crouches, rifles through his jacket for his wallet. Takes out a twenty and leaves the rest tucked under the guy’s hand, and when Sam looks at him Dean shrugs. "That was the deal," he says.

Jesus christ, he’s young. Sam’s going to wreck him.

*

A motel’s not that far. More of a no-tell. The stolen money from the car is good enough for two hours, which makes Dean shift, surprised. "Thought I was lying?" Sam says, and Dean looks up at him and then away, but he follows obediently enough to the ugly little room. Pink and dingy, but there’s a bed, and Dean snorts and says, "Dude, this is nasty," and Sam shrugs. Yeah, it’s nasty, but nastiness is what this room is for.

He doesn’t waste time—strips off Dean’s jacket, his plaid overshirt, his boots and socks and jeans. Dean’s surprised about it, more shy than he should be with the job he’s doing, but he lets Sam move him around. He’s left in grey briefs, a Zeppelin t-shirt, the amulet Sam gave him swinging over his chest. Sam touches it, briefly—its far-future copy sitting in his duffel bag, in a shithole house in Missouri—before he pushes Dean to sit on the nasty mattress. "How long have you been hooking?" he says, unbuttoning his own shirt.

Dean’s been following his body, watching his hands, but at that he looks up, surprised. Annoyed. "What is this, friendship time?" he says. He pauses, looking closer at Sam’s face. Facing each other, full on in the light for nearly the first time. "Wait. Have I—? Were you at the bar before?"

Sam’s been wondering if this would happen. He doesn’t look all that much like his preteen self, at least as he remembers, and he’d already decided he was going to lie. Not like Dean would expect time-travel via angels. "Don’t worry, I’m not stalking you," he says, in lieu of a real answer, and when he goes to his knees Dean’s so surprised that he doesn’t seem to mind the evasion. Sam gets his hand on Dean’s crotch—his dick, soft, and his balls—and squeezes, warm and easy. Dean’s hips cringe up into it, his hands fisting in the no-doubt filthy pink blanket. Sam rolls his nuts through the briefs and already there’s a stiffening, Dean’s dick bumping up against his palm. He smiles at how Dean’s staring at him. "So? How long have you been doing this? Nobody wanted to jerk you off before?"

"Sometimes," Dean says. Trying for bravado. Sam fondles him, easy, the whole package an easy fill of his palm, and Dean heaves in breath, hips working. "Shit. Um. A while. Got to pay the rent, right?"

"Right," Sam says, smiling up, and spreads Dean’s knees wider, hauls him closer to the edge of the bed so his sweet plush bubble butt is barely hanging on, his legs wide around Sam’s shoulders. Dean props himself up on his hands, spread out. Pink-faced, already. Sam wonders why he never had any idea, as a kid. "Bet you do okay. Dude in the alley a regular?"

Even with Sam’s hand working his dick Dean manages to roll his eyes. That teen bravado—god, he is cute. Sam missed out. "Won’t be anymore," he says, and that’s interesting—means Dean’s been working that bar for weeks maybe, means that the gas and the food and the clothes and probably the sneakers he’s going to give Sam for Christmas, in a few weeks, those all came from—this. Sam narrows his eyes, thoughtful, watching Dean’s eyes go heavy and his thighs clench, bare and pale and long, and then stands up, lets go.

Dean makes a disappointed sound. "Don’t pout," Sam says, and Dean glares up at him for it. He undoes his belt, unzips, and Dean’s attention’s caught right there, immediately. "Take me out, suck it."

No sense beating around the bush. Dean’s dick is standing up so hard in his briefs there’s a wet spot at the head and he glances up at Sam, furtive. Interesting. His fingertips are cold when he opens up Sam’s clothes more, but his hand is reasonably sure, when he gets Sam in a good grip—though his eyes get wide, and wider when he pulls Sam’s dick out all the way. "Holy crap," he says, under his breath. Sam cups the back of his head and Dean breathes deep, licks his lips—mouths at the head, tentative, but Sam doesn’t want tentative no matter how pretty it is. He sets his other hand under Dean’s jaw and squeezes, holding it steady, and when he pushes in deep Dean’s not at all prepared for it—coughs, gags, gripping at Sam’s hips in a panicked spasm. Sam lets him pull back for a few seconds and already there’s a wet trail between his lip and the tip of Sam’s dick. "Dude, give me a warning," he says, looking up.

Sam shrugs at him, not letting his head go. "Thought you were a professional," he says, dismissive. Dean’s face does a shocky thing—almost like his adult self—and Sam raises his eyebrows. "You want the money, right? Skinny belly, I’m guessing you need dinner. Or maybe you got someone else you need to feed?"

Both a low blow and the direct hit Sam knew it’d be. "Screw you," Dean says, fervent, and Sam tilts his head and pushes his dick forward. The head’s fat, dark red against Dean’s pale chin, the wet plush curve of his lower lip, and Dean breathes shaky and furious up at him for a long second before he drops his jaw and Sam pushes, not fast but steady, all the way in until he’s knocking the back of Dean’s throat again, makes him gag again, and this time Sam doesn’t let him back off.

"Breathe through your nose," Sam advises, and Dean grips the hem of Sam’s t-shirt and tries to push against his hip, and Sam gives him the space of pulling back to swallow more desperate air again before he pushes back in and Dean makes that nasty _glork_ sound, trying to swallow and not able to. It feels good, because it’s a wet hot hole—would feel better, if Dean would just suck or use his tongue, and Sam hopes he was better than this with other johns—but mainly it’s just fascinating. No time at all, with Sam’s hips pumping steady and unrelenting, before Dean’s eyes are wet, tears streaming from the corners—before his face is red, his ears actually hot under Sam’s palms when he shifts his grip. Sam pushes in deep and holds there for a few seconds, and it feels great to have Dean’s throat working at the head, frantic, but it’s better to see his eyes turn up, wet and pleading, and to see the instant relief when Sam pulls back. He pulls back further, drags his cockhead over Dean’s lip, watches him pant for air and admires the abused-red split of his mouth, his chin sloppy with fucked-out spit, and when he says, "I’m gonna fuck you," he says it because it’s true but mainly because he wants to see the look in Dean’s eyes. Shock for a split second and then—something wobbles, uncertain—because Dean knows it’s true, too.

He pulls off the rest of Dean’s clothes. Lets him keep the amulet. He is skinny—bruises, too. Hunting or hooking? Both, maybe. His dick’s sunk down to half-hard (not totally soft, despite the rough treatment, and Sam tucks that away as a point of interest)—smallish, pink. Well, even at nearly-nineteen, he’s not quite done growing. He’s got a condom in his jacket pocket, so he’s not as dumb as he seems, even if he doesn’t know he should’ve been using one for blowjobs too, and a little packet of lube, to go with it. Probably won’t be enough. "You get fucked often?" Sam says.

Dean’s smeared a wrist over his chin to clean up the sloppiness, but his mouth’s still dark-fucked, puffy. "Why, you jealous?" he says, with a spark of that same defiance.

Cute little bitch. Sam smiles at him for it, and then shoves him so his back hits the mattress, the amulet bouncing to lay askew on the bed. Sam drags his hips down so that they really are off the bed, and tears open the lube packet with his teeth. "Grab your knees," he says, and Dean swears at him but does, and Sam glops the lube straight into the crack of his ass, smears it down and over his hole with two fingers. His dick throbs. Hot, and Dean feels tight as a virgin. He presses, threatening. "Seriously. You’ve been fucked, right?"

Dean’s dick twitches. His balls aren’t too big, this neat little package sitting there on his taint, just enough out of the way. "Jeez—yes, okay?" he says, face bright red. "Why do you care?"

Sam pushes his thumb inside, just a little, testing. Dean’s breath whooshes out. Yeah, he’s been fucked, but not enough where it’s easy. Well, if he doesn’t want to admit it that’s not Sam’s problem. "Just wondering," Sam says, and uses his slick hand to pump himself a few times. The condom he leaves on the mattress, and Dean doesn’t seem to notice, because his eyes have snapped to Sam’s dick, to the weight of it in his hand. Sam bites back another grin. When he moves forward he angles it so it drags along the silky back of Dean’s thigh, a slick smearing slide that makes Dean visibly clench before he grabs Dean’s hips and lifts him up, getting him in a better position. Dumps Dean’s weight down onto his shoulders, his knees spread, and for a second he looks panicked. "Breathe," Sam says, again, and holds his dick steady, and bulls his way inside.

Dean practically bellows out a _fuck_ , loud enough that if they were anywhere else someone might come running. He lets go of one leg and grabs Sam’s t-shirt, grip twisting, and Sam catches his leg and pushes it back, back until Dean’s knee touches his own shoulder, shoves in deeper. Dean gulps air, strains, but Sam’s bigger and Sam’s stronger and Sam wants it, and Sam’s going to get what he wants, for the first time in fucking weeks. When he bottoms out, balls nice and warm against Dean’s spread ass, he grinds in slow and holds there, enjoying.

"Jesus," Dean whispers. All folded up on himself, probably can’t get much air. His face looks ruined. He huffs in air like he’s crying, his hips squirming in Sam’s grip. "You’ve got a fucking—bat—" he starts, and groans instead of finishing.

It is big, something he’s always taken a quiet pleasure in. Even if that used to embarrass him, almost, before. Now it’s just solid entertainment. The worried look a woman will get, a guy on his knees looking up in shock. Forcing it in and knowing that the person has to _take_ it—like Dean’s taking it, now, when Sam pulls out and rocks back in, his whole body arching even in its tight little tangle. He wonders how an older version of Dean would take it. If he’d get so red and sweaty, if his eyes would be that same wet gleaming green.

Dean’s dick has wilted, entirely. Must hurt. Sam leans forward, humping in, and there’s a hitch—Dean’s chest heaving, his gripping insistent hand hauling at Sam’s t-shirt. "Fuck," he whispers, again, and Sam smiles at him, props on one hand above Dean’s straining body. Fucks in there, again, forcing the heavy head of his dick all over the front wall of Dean’s asshole. Making it good, making Dean’s eyes widen, wondering. Making him say, breathy, "God, you’re—what are you—"

"You’re going to like it," Sam says. Not asking. He closes his eyes for a second, feeling—Dean’s asshole gripping insistent as a cockring, the heat of him inside. All the shit Sam dreamed about when he still had dreams—right here, for the taking. When he looks again Dean’s watching him, uncertain, and Sam pushes him forward, shoving him bodily up the slick gross coverlet, making enough room for Sam to get his knees underneath him, to spread Dean out. Dean grips at him, broken-open, shocked. Sam could milk him dry. Might. He rocks in, fast, and Dean yelps and squirms—hurt, but not entirely. Sam smiles, and for the first time since he’s come back he leans in and gives a kiss—rough, biting, but Dean’s mouth parts for it like Sam’s offering him water in a desert, his eyes so wide and nervous and wanting when Sam pulls back that Sam thinks, fuck, he could get his fist in this Dean and his brother would still just spread wider for it.

Later, when he’s got Dean split apart—when he’s creamed him up inside—when he’s made Dean cry, and then made him come, and then made him do both at once—and their two hours are up—Sam will hold this skinny soft version of his brother against his chest, while he’s shaking, and he’ll think. Castiel left him here to get him out of the way, obviously, and it was a fun break, but that doesn’t mean Sam wants to stay. He’ll pet Dean’s sweaty shivery spine, dip down to press into where Dean’s loose and slick, and he’ll enjoy the plush wet heat but he’ll be thinking ahead, calculating. "Dean," he’ll say, and Dean will murmur something sleepy and then go stiff, because—they didn’t exchange names, and how could this big-dicked mean stranger know—and Dean will lift his head and look at Sam in wary horror, and Sam will say, steady, "When is your dad going to get home? We need to talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/621600563348619264/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-an-anonymous)


	24. SPN: weecest, implied Dean/John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/Dean, implied Dean/John. Rated M; pining!Sam, jealousy, parental incest implied.

Summer in Arizona. Sam thinks it might actually be hell. He’s laying spread eagle on his bed, stripped down to t-shirt and boxers, and this absolute dump of a motel only has an evaporative cooler and so the whole place smells like wet dust. He’s got his eyes closed, concentrated on not moving, and if he doesn’t move then he can pretend like it’s damp instead of sticky—cool, instead of muggy—but unfortunately it doesn’t stop his ears from working, because Dean’s on the phone with Dad. Again.

"Yessir," Dean says, quiet. Corded phone up near the door and he’s got it pulled all the way over by the mini-fridge. Like if he’s far enough away somehow Sam won’t notice. "Yeah, we got it taken care of. When do you think you’ll—"

 _Be back_ , cut off. That’s what Dean always wants—Dad, back, the three of them faking at happy families. Sam opens his eyes and looks at the ceiling fan, slow its only speed. They aren’t exactly a Norman Rockwell painting. Sam doesn’t know why Dean pretends otherwise.

"Yeah," Dean says, soft, and it’s nasty the way Sam’s gut immediately takes a downward turn. He draws up on his elbows, looking past the screen into the tiny kitchenette. Dean, leaning against the wall with his shoulders hunched in, the cord tangled in his fingers. Chick from a movie talking to her crush, Sam thinks, and his second thought is—worse. "Yeah, Dad. See you."

He hangs up and sighs. When he turns around he’s surprised for some reason, seeing Sam watching him. "Dad’s gonna be another week," Dean says, and wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. He’s still wearing jeans, and that Ozzy tour t-shirt they found at the thrift mart. Overdressed, to Sam’s mind. Dean flaps his shirt, his white belly showing. "How do people live here. It’s so frickin’ hot, man."

"Yeah," Sam says, sounding braindead. How do they live.

They weren’t supposed to be here. California, Dad had promised, and Dean lit up with talking about going to the beach, cool breezes and girls in bikinis. Of course, when they stalled out here with five hundred miles to go, because Dad caught wind of weird deaths in the Chiricahua Mountains, Dean didn’t complain a peep. He went out with Dad one night—left Sam alone, in this same dumpy motel, to stew and worry—and then he came back by himself the next morning, fretful but loyal. Told Sam, _Dad’s got it covered, don’t worry_. Like that was what Sam was worried about. Dean had a bruise, on his shoulder, when he came back. Sam laid awake, wondering—knowing. Knowing. He’s always known.

The motel has a pool, if you can call it that. A crappy small kidney bean with no shade, carved out of bleached-white kool deck. It gets locked up at night but they figured out pretty quick that the motel manager’s a drunk and doesn’t give a damn what they do, and so it’s something to occupy them at night—a padlock Sam could’ve picked when he was nine, a six pack of beer they share because Dean can actually get it legally, now. "Not as fun that way," Dean says, shrugging. Sam rolls his eyes and shoves water at his face, which makes Dean splutter predictable as ever—which makes him dive for Sam, predictable as ever—which means they wrestle, trying to dunk each other, and Sam’s got new height but Dean’s got more experience, and Sam wants to win but—but Dean’s skin is slick-silk, even in the over-chlorinated water, and he’s warm and weightless, and whoever wins Sam’s held right up close against his body and has Dean laughing and right here, right here, with him and nowhere else.

Nobody comes out this way. Not this time of year. There’s a tired hispanic family that checks in, one night, and they have a pretty daughter maybe Sam’s age—who smiles at Dean, shy but interested, and Dean grins at her, blows her a kiss, until her dad sees and she gets berated in a quiet barrage of Spanish. "Dude, I am an _international_ man of mystery," Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes and says, "Okay, Austin Powers," and that was—shit, a mistake, because he knows that instantly Dean’s going to do his terrible Mike Myers impression—but then the phone rings in their room, and Dean’s face changes instantly, and he disappears inside while Sam bangs his head back against the stucco. He doesn’t need to hear to know Dean’s saying, obedient, _yessir_. Sam looks out at the fire-colored sunset and wonders, bitter, if Dean’s dick gets hard every time he does.

Sick. Not that Sam has room to throw stones. When they finally drag themselves out of the pool—one a.m., four beers under Dean’s belt and two under Sam’s—half the time Dean’ll just change right there, in the kitchenette on, making a puddle on the linoleum. "Dude," Sam will always say, throwing up hands like it’s gross—because he knows he’s supposed to find it gross—and Dean always says, "Like you don’t love it," smug. They hardly go out in the day, too damn hot, and so he’s pale, pale, everywhere, his back and the pretty curve of his ass and his legs, bowed out at the knee where Sam knows he’d fit, where he’d slide his hips between them and it’d feel—right. _Cowboy legs_ , Dad called ‘em once, kind of drunk, and Dean had immediately darted a look at Sam and his ears had gone bright red—and Sam had looked away, thinking, yeah. Made for riding.

Seriously, sick. Sicker that he bets he wasn’t the only one in the room having that thought. Sicker, that when Dean tugs up dry boxers and turns around, Sam doesn’t look away fast enough, and Dean sees him and his face does—some strange thing, something Sam doesn’t know how to interpret. His amulet swings in the middle of his pale chest and Sam wants to get up, grab him by it, pull him in. Ask him—why not Sam? Why, if it was going to be anyone—

"Dude, earth to Samuel," Dean says, and Sam blinks and refocuses. Dean frowns at him, kinda smiling-kinda not. "You gonna sleep in your wet trunks? Get a move on, weirdo."

" _You’re_ weird," Sam says, automatic and dumb, and Dean rolls his eyes, throws himself back onto his own bed. Sam looks at him—his knees, spread—his nipples getting hard in the damp cool air—and then looks away. He has to, because if he doesn’t then he has to do something, and he just doesn’t know what to do.

Dad swings by—middle of the night, the next night. Sam’s asleep until the door opens, and then his eyes slam open at the wall away from the door, listening to the low conversation happening behind his back. _Everything okay? Yeah, kiddo. Just needed a resupply. Salt and a few other things. Gotta head back into the mountains but I think I’ve about got it cleaned out. Can I help? No—this is a stealth mission, can’t risk it. I’m just taking a shower before I head out. Wanted to stop by and make sure you boys were okay. We’re okay, Dad. Do you…_

The bathroom door closes, very quietly. Sam breathes, twice, and sits up, and the room’s empty. He looks at the bathroom door, and the water rushes on, and he can’t hear talking—it’s not Dean sitting on the toilet giving a debrief while Dad cleans up blood and guts, not like they’ve done before—and it takes Sam a minute to realize that he’s chubbing up, his mouth dry because he’s just staring at the pale pink paintjob, and he’s imagining—cowboy legs. Fuck.

They don’t try to wake Sam up, before Dad leaves. The room door closes and Dean fixes up the locks again, and when Sam turns over he’s got his forehead pressed against the paint, his hair still wet and his boxers barely tugged on, and Sam—jesus, how’s he supposed to take it? There’s an engine sound—the peel-out of tires on gravel. Dad’s gone, again. "Good visit?" Sam says, and Dean jumps, looks at Sam over his shoulder.

"Shit, dude, nearly gave me a heart attack," Dean says. Frowns, after a second. "You woke up?"

"I’ve been here the whole time, Dean," Sam says, and Dean’s frown gets deeper before his eyes go wide. It’d be kind of funny if Sam weren’t pissed. "Like—I’m not deaf, you know?"

Dean doesn’t say anything. Sam gets up, crosses the room, and Dean doesn’t say anything still until Sam’s right in front of him—both of them in their bare feet and Sam’s got half an inch on him, even if he’s still trying to get the muscle—and Dean says finally, "Sammy, what—" but it’s a little late because Sam’s got his hands on Dean’s arms—damp, warm—and presses him back, against the door.

This close, Sam can see a red mark—a circle, on Dean’s shoulder where normally it’d be covered by a t-shirt—and he thinks, sudden sick certainty, that soon it’ll turn into a bruise. "You let him," Sam says, and Dean looks—actually panicked. Sam squeezes his arms, rocks him a little against the door. "You let him."

He does. Eager, like a puppy thrilled that its master came home. Dean stares back and forth between Sam’s eyes, mouth half-open waiting for an excuse to come—but there’s no excuse, they both know it, because Sam’s not deaf and he’s not blind and Dean was just in the shower, too, and there’s a mark on his shoulder, and Sam leans forward in raw stupid hope and kisses Dean. Clumsy—too much force, and their teeth clack—but he pushes in, pins their hips together, holds Dean tight, and realigns their mouths right and licks in. Dean breathes shock, doesn’t participate, and Sam tastes inside—beer, but—whiskey, too—and they haven’t had whiskey, not for weeks, and that means—that means—

Dean flinches—licks at him, too—gets his hands up and pushes at Sam’s ribs and breaks their mouths apart. Sam pants at him, an inch away. Dean’s eyes are bright, wide, his lips wet. "Sammy, what are you doing?" he says, like that’s not fucking obvious.

Sam licks his lips, tastes that phantom flavor. He lets Dean’s arms go and slides down his sides, to his hips, and presses forward until his knee’s between Dean’s knees—that open space. Space that’s maybe already been filled tonight, and the thought makes Sam’s gut lurch. Sloppy seconds. "You gonna let me, too?" he says. Dean’s hand splays against his stomach, holding, while his face goes slowly and deeply red. Sam ducks in, kisses his mouth soft and brief. Dean inhales sharp and his face, when Sam pulls back again, looks somehow dazed. Like soft isn’t what he expected. "We’re supposed to take care of each other. You and me."

"Sam," Dean says, rougher, and Sam cups his face in both hands and kisses him, soft, and again, and on the third Dean makes a weird small noise and holds Sam’s waist, fingers digging in, clutching and desperate. Yes, Sam thinks, groaning—yes, Dean touching him—yes, he thinks, at the car driving off into the night—because he’s Dean’s but Dean is _his_ , and maybe with this, finally, he won’t be anyone else’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/621671145093169152/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-azothel-donated)


	25. SPN: Lucifer!Sam/Dean, Endverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Lucifer!Sam/Dean. Rated E; Endverse, noncon, angst.

Sam says yes, in Detroit. Dean knows because Sam left him a voicemail.

He got a handful of voicemails this year. He never responded because he—he just never responded. He drove alone and killed some things and nearly got killed by others, and the world got worse. Lucifer out there, somewhere Dean couldn’t find him, and Sam gone, and he’d watch his phone light up with an unfamiliar number and wait through the rings, and then when he got the notification he’d hold the phone to his ear, hunched over with his eyes scrunched shut, and listen. Sam usually didn’t say his name, and he didn’t tell Dean where he was, but he’d say things like _he wants to use me_ and _I’m hiding but Castiel says they’re getting better at tracking_ and _be safe_. Be safe. The last voicemail is left about five minutes to midnight when it’s still technically May 1, and Dean’s in Louisville with ten stitches in his thigh and nearly a full bottle of tequila in his gut, and he doesn’t actually listen to it until morning, when the skies are suddenly dark all over the country and there’s thunder like it might never stop. He’s curled up on the backseat of the car, and he puts the phone to his ear and listens to Sam’s voice and Sam says, for the first time in a year, _Dean, I think I can—I think I can do it. I’m sorry_.

He’s sorry. Dean doesn’t delete the voicemail like he hasn’t deleted any of the others, and he lets the phone fall to the floorboards. The thunder’s getting louder. It rattles in his chest like there’s something that used to be there, and now it’s just an empty box.

He’s outside of Evansville when it happens—this massive world-ending crack of lightning that splits the sky’s darkness, so bright he slams on the breaks, swerves over to the side of the country highway. Afterimages blur purple across his vision and he has to clap his hands over his ears for the thunder that comes after. Fuck—loud enough that it hurts, that the windshield fractures. He stumbles out of the car and Castiel’s there, for the first time in months and months since he abandoned Dean to his miseries. Castiel’s wounded, scorched. His ears and eyes and nose all bleeding, and he grabs Dean’s jacket sleeve and Dean has to read his lips to know he’s saying _it’s too late_ , and _Michael lost_ , and Dean doesn’t know what that means. He jerks out of Cas’s grip and Cas stares at him and then looks up, straight up with his back arched unnaturally, and in the blink of a second he’s gone. Gone.

The thunder quiets, finally. In its place Dean’s aware of his ears ringing and the ticking of the car’s engine as it cools, and—nothing else. No other cars on the road near him. No breeze. He listens to his own air and looks west, toward where the lightning was, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and he turns around fast and it’s—Sam.

He backs up a step, more out of shock than anything. "What," he says, breathless, and Sam tilts his head, looking at Dean. _Looking_ at him, in this—weird dispassionate way, this studying way, and Dean looks back, sees Sam in his dumb boxy jacket and his walked-on jeans and his hair Dean used to tease him for, when it was still okay enough between them that they could have teasing, and it’s all the right shape but the horror’s rising up in his gut. That voicemail. That look, wearing Sam’s face.

"I’ve been wanting to meet you," Sam says. Quiet voice, calm. He smiles at Dean, a little. "I thought I was going to kill you, today, but I guess you managed to dodge my brother long enough that you got out of it. You’re more clever than they gave you credit for, Dean."

He backs up another step. Like there’s anywhere he can go. He has Ruby’s knife and he has his gun and he has a foot-long blade he stole from an angel under the front bench in the car, but none of them will work. "Lucifer," he says, and even as he says it he hopes it’s not true.

Sam’s face smiles a little wider. "In the flesh," he says, spreading his hands. "So to speak."

Dean’s ass hits the car, his boot thudding against the front tire. He didn’t realize he was still backing away. Lucifer. He carries Sam’s body—differently. Taller, slower. His eyes drag all over Dean and Dean feels them physically—literally, physically, like a heavy hand is pressing on his skin, pressing through his skin. When Lucifer meets his eyes again he looks—interested, thoughtful.

"Sam loves you," he says. Dean’s jaw flexes and he looks down at the asphalt. "No—" Lucifer says, and Dean’s head drags up by some unseen force, gripped tight so that he has to face the thing wearing his brother head-on. He swallows and the pressure slides to his throat, not hurting but an unmistakable threat. Lucifer dips Sam’s chin a little. "He loves you. I loved my brother, too. It’s why Sam said yes. Did you know that?"

"The connection’s a little beyond me," Dean says. He’s surprised he’s allowed to speak.

Lucifer stares at him for a too-long alien second before he smiles, a strange upside-down version of Sam’s smile. Like he’s pitying the dumb human. "He wanted to keep the world from burning," Lucifer says. "Not so much for the world’s sake, but because you were in it. He thought he could control me and stop all this. It was noble. Even if it didn’t work."

"If you loved your brother, why did you kill him?" Dean says. He remembers Sam’s hands around his throat, his cheekbone cracked and the blood spilling over his lips. Lucifer watches him, calm. Maybe he did it with his hands, too. "Shouldn’t you be celebrating?"

Lucifer huffs. It’s so like Sam for a second that Dean feels his heart crumbling inside his chest. "It’s okay that you don’t understand," Lucifer says, softly. He steps closer and grips Dean’s shoulders, gentle enough but it doesn’t stop Dean’s skin from crawling. "You will, I think. One day. You’ll know what’s necessary and you’ll try, instead of this pointless running in place you’ve been trying to justify to yourself. Today isn’t for you. Today is for Sam."

Dean can hardly breathe with Lucifer this close. "What does that mean?"

Another little smile. Rueful. Almost sweet. "Sam’s screaming," Lucifer says. He takes one hand off Dean and taps Sam’s temple with two fingers. "In here. He wants control back, wants to stop me from doing what I need to do. I need to show him what will happen, if he keeps defying me."

"Don’t hurt him," Dean blurts out. Stupid—like he can stop anything—but it’s instinct, ripping past that ill-healed scar where he thought he’d buried away worrying about Sam.

Lucifer shakes his head. "I don’t want to." It almost sounds honest. "But I can’t have the distraction if I want to execute my vision for this world. But we both know, Dean, that Sam can take any kind of pain and still hold strong. What hurts him is what hurts you."

He’s watching Dean’s face, waiting for him to get it. Dean drags in air and the understanding of what’s about to happen settles over him like suffocation. "Don’t," he says, but he can barely get out the voice for it. Lucifer gives him another rueful little smile, like it’s something that can’t be helped. "Sam knows better. He’ll stop you."

Lucifer cups Dean’s jaw in Sam’s big hand, strokes over his cheek with the thumb. "He won’t," Lucifer says, quiet promise, and there’s a weird stomach-turning moment where the world quivers, and then Dean’s—oh, god, oh fuck oh fuck he’s on his back on the Impala’s hood, and he’s naked, and he had forty years with Alastair’s knives and even so he still has a moment, a fierce bloody moment, where he thinks he can fight back. He strains and is shocked to find that he can move, and he swings a clenched fist and Sam’s hand catches it, easy. Lucifer’s stripped, too, and Sam’s body is—thinner than Dean remembers him being—like he wasn’t eating right, this last year—but he’s still tan, still built, and Dean’s eyes drop because he can’t help it and Sam’s dick is—god help him, _hard_ , and big, hanging heavy and straight out from Sam’s hips.

"This is stupid," Dean says, trying to push back on the hood but his skin’s catching, the metal holding him. Lucifer grabs his knee, drags him painfully back into place. "And cliche. I mean, rape? Really? Come on, you think this’ll break me?"

"It did," Lucifer says, easy. "In hell. Eventually." Dean’s jaw clenches and he tries a punch again, but Lucifer’s strong—stronger than Sam, unnatural and inevitable, and he grabs Dean’s wrists in one hand, pins them against Dean’s chest bruisingly tight, and his hips are between Dean’s thighs and he catches one leg, pushes it up and back, spreads Dean open for it. He looks down at Dean, knowing, and it’s not—lustful, not crazed and dripping like the demons were. Not cruel. One corner of Sam’s mouth lifts up. "Breaking you isn’t the point. Remember, this is for Sam. He wanted this, so badly," Lucifer says, and Dean stills his squirming, looks up into Sam’s familiar face. It’s still dark, with the sky crowded with thunderclouds, but Sam seems lit from within, Lucifer’s grace filling him. For a second, he looks genuinely sympathetic, and Dean’s still frozen, mind stuck on that thought, when Lucifer dips in and kisses him, close-mouthed and nearly sweet, Sam’s lips soft and catching against his where they’re chapped. When Lucifer lifts up he sighs, still close enough that Sam’s breath touches Dean’s mouth, and he looks right into Dean’s eyes. "What matters is that it hurts you. It’ll hurt, Dean."

It does already. Sam’s prick nudges in against Dean’s ass, wet only with whatever precome’s making it slip against his skin, and Dean stares up into his brother’s face. When the shove happens—it is a shove, Sam’s dick too big and Dean too tight—Dean can’t help the sound he makes, or how he arches, trying to get away—and for a split second Lucifer’s face changes and through the haze of split-open racking hurt Dean knows that it’s Sam, it’s his brother, holding him and wrenching him wide and looking at him terrified—and Sam lets Dean’s wrists go and grabs his face—says, "Dean," in the way he always used to, the way Dean loved, the way that meant something deeper than any other words could ever hope to say. Even with Sam shoved inside him and with how much it hurts Dean touches his face and says, shaky, "It’s okay, Sammy," but before he can finish Sam’s name Sam’s eyes change and he knows it’s Lucifer, looking back at him, a weird canny triumph in his eyes.

The thunderclouds part, over Sam’s head, and roll back. The sun’s rising in the east and the sky’s a clear, pale blue. Lucifer plants a hand on the car and holds Dean’s hips in his other hand and fucks in and it hurts, hurts, fuck it hurts. He smiles down and says, "It’ll be over soon, Dean," but that’s a lie. Dean drags in breath, hooks his legs around Sam’s hips, and when Lucifer screws inside the next time it still hurts like knives but at least the angle’s better, and he drops his head back against the car, pants up at the clear sky. It won’t be over soon, but one day it will be. Lucifer kisses his jaw, gentle, and Dean closes his eyes and says, clear inside himself, _it’ll be okay, Sammy_ , and resolves then that he will kill them both to make sure that one day it’s true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/621746117235916800/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-hairmonie)


	26. SPN: wincest w/tentacles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/Dean, tentacle sex. Rated E; bunker era, established relationship, body horror, dubcon, oviposition.

Sam wakes up shivering, to a quiet morning. The water laps at his legs, his hips. He looks up and the sky’s a uniform sober grey, rain threatening at the edges, and he drags his hands up there’s cold damp sand riming his nails and packed into his life line. The tall grass waves in a chilly breeze and he shivers hard,like all his bones just tried to leave his skin, and when he sits up he—has no idea where he is, or what happened, but he’s naked, and the sea is cold.

"Sammy," he hears, and Dean crashes down next to him, jeans instantly soggy in the tide. "Jesus, jesus," he’s saying, and he hugs Sam around the shoulders, hugs his wet head against Dean’s neck, and Sam grips at him because, god, Dean’s so _warm_. Warm, and giving, and living, and when he tugs away he gets his hands on Sam’s face, shoves his wet hair back, looks at Sam full on with worry and relief, all at the same time. "Dude, were you auditioning for Splash or something? I told you I hate sex on the beach."

"You’re just not man enough for a pink cocktail," Sam croaks, saltwater in his throat, and Dean rolls his eyes and pulls at his arms and gets him standing, and Sam knows they’ve got to go but he looks back out to the marshy edge of the sea, attention caught there, listening.

Dean wants to drive straight back to the bunker but they haven’t finished the job. "I’m fine," Sam says, which is—not exactly a lie. He’s cold, can’t seem to warm up even with a hot shower back at their room, and he’s missing about twelve hours of memory. He tugs a blanket around his shoulders. "We need to figure out what happened."

"Sure, Daryl Hannah," Dean says, hands on his hips, annoyed. "What’ve you got?"

Nothing. Pretty much like they had when they showed up, yesterday. Sam remembers stepping onto the sandbar, just trying to get his bearings while Dean checked out the bar in town, and then it’s like—lights out. Just an impression of the dark water. He shakes his head and Dean sighs, annoyed-but-really-worried like he so often gets, but he squeezes Sam’s shoulder too, and kisses his jaw with rough affection, before he goes out and investigates again that afternoon, giving Sam strict instructions to warm up.

Sam doesn’t know how. He tried the hot shower, and cup after cup of bitter coffee, and he sits on the floor in front of the blasting heater, and he’s still got seawater in his veins. He keeps thinking of the beach. That grey sky, stretching out over the grey water, and the salt wind in the air. How the breeze felt. Home.

Dean’s back around sunset. A thin grey-pink affair, stretching out from the distant horizon. He’s frustrated, hasn’t found anything, and Sam shakes his head. "Come on," he says, and steals the keys, and Dean frowns but follows him, and when they park again down by the sandbar Dean’s shaking his head saying _no, no, this is nuts, Sammy, come on_.

"We don’t have any other leads," Sam says, and that _is_ true. He kicks off his shoes and walks bare-footed down the cold sand and Dean bitches up a storm, behind him, but of course he follows.

"I hate sand," Dean mutters, and Sam smiles but it’s the sea that he’s smiling at.

Something’s swelling, in him. He’s still cold but he doesn’t mind it, now. He trails his fingers through the tall grass and watches the sun sinking down, and walks down to where the sand’s packed dark and damp, puddles soaking up under his feet. _Sam_ he hears, and maybe it’s Dean that’s saying it. He can’t tell. He strips off his jacket, shirt, shirt, belt and jeans, and by the time he’s naked again he’s standing with the wind touching his skin, the salt flooding against him. The sun sinks below the horizon, leaving just the last frail touches of pink above the sea, and a wave rises—not high but inexorable, coming closer like a mindful seeking thing, pushing forward across the grey plane of the sea—and when it crashes down the water swirls up to Sam’s ankles and he feels—yes, what he needs to do, what the sea called him for, and he unfurls and turns and Dean’s staring at him with his jaw dropped, and he holds out a hand and says, "It’s time," only Dean doesn’t seem to know why.

"You—" Dean starts, and "I—" he says, and then he says, "What the _fuck_ , Sammy," and Sam smiles at him and reels him in, easy, with his multiform arms and legs and self, and Dean struggles but he doesn’t need to.

"Dean, it’s going to be okay," he says, and Dean looks at him big eyed-eyed and says, "Sammy, you’ve got fuckin’ _tentacles_ ," which—well, yes. That’s true.

Sam takes a deep draught of the cold wet air, resettling his shoulders. He has his human body and his better self, the strong new arms of his purpose swelling forth from his back, his hips, curving forward between his legs. A paler version of his own skin, cool and a little slippery. They move easily with a thought from him, as simple as curving his hand around Dean’s jaw—which he does, catching Dean’s attention—and they’re strong enough to hold Dean a little in the air, which makes him an easier height to kiss. Warm, Sam thinks again, and soft, and safe. His brother. Dean blinks rapidly at him when he pulls back and Sam smiles again, presses a thumb over his lips. "We have work to do," he says, soft, and Dean frowns but it’s all right that he doesn’t understand. Sam can do the work for both of them.

The tentacles have spatulate tips, not quite as useful as hands but good enough for what Sam needs. He’s careful when he peels off Dean’s jacket with his human hands, and Dean freezes long enough that it’s easy for the tentacles to more or less rip off the rest. "Sorry," Sam says, "I know you liked those jeans," and Dean says breathless, "What the fuck, Sam—is that really you? You’re not like—possessed or something?"

He’s got to be cold, in the wind like this. Sam’s arms circle him, the two lowest working on stripping off his boots a little more carefully. "Of course it’s me," Sam says, and Dean gives him a skeptical—scared—look. Sam kisses him again, Dean’s lips warm if unresponsive, and says, quiet there between them, "I know you like it when I kiss your neck if we’re about to sleep, and I know that you think kale was invented by Crowley, and I know that Overboard was your favorite movie for about two years."

"Goldie Hawn’s hot," Dean says, dumb and automatic defense. Sam’s arms finish stripping him completely bare, tossing his boots further up the beach to lay safe with his jacket, and then they circle around Dean—hugging his legs, his arms, his waist, slipping over his back to lay one tip over his heart. Dean shudders, his cheeks going pink, and Sam kisses him again, deeper this time. Dean participates, licks at him and bites his bottom lip, and when Sam pulls back enough that Dean can breathe Dean tips his head down, looking between them. The tentacles twine around his hips, curving up and hugging, and it looks— "This is some hentai shit, Sam," Dean says, and Sam laughs.

"You and your anime," he says, and lays Dean back on the sand, his arms surrounding them both, working hard. He kisses Dean’s jaw, his throat, and Dean’s breath catches as Sam’s arms grip at him, pull him into a better position—hips up, off the sand, and his legs spread wide and held. Sam pets a hand down Dean’s chest, soothing. "It doesn’t hurt, right?"

"Not exactly," Dean says, but he’s tugging at Sam’s grip, testing.

Sam shakes his head—there’s no sense in Dean trying to fight it, since it’s just something that needs to happen. Still, he can be sure to distract. One tentacle slips up around Dean’s waist and circles around his dick, squeezing as easy as a hand would, and Dean jerks, surprised. Sam smiles and sends another to wrap a loose hold around his nuts, and he knows it’s cold but the slickness will feel good. "Ohhh-kay," Dean gets out, his dick swelling, and Sam huffs a laugh, glad. No reason it shouldn’t feel good for Dean, especially if it’ll make it easier.

"You’re perfect," he says, the truth of it ringing like a gong in him, like the certainty of the tide. Dean doesn’t say anything, surprised, and Sam goes to his knees on the sand and lifts Dean’s hips higher with a surge of his working arms and licks into his asshole, wanting this first touch to feel familiar at least. Dean makes that surprised gurgly yell that always makes Sam grin—like it’s surprising, after so many years, that Sam would spend an hour eating him out if he could—and Sam kisses him soft there and holds him open and works deep, strong rhythmic pulses against the wrinkled skin, wetting the hair flat, making him drip.

Dean’s got a hand in his hair, his hips arching as much as they can, when Sam pulls back, and Sam doesn’t waste time—he lifts up and replaces his tongue with his own dick, pushing in deep in a single slow thrust, and Dean grabs at his shoulder, at the tentacle holding his waist, arches, groans loud enough that Sam almost can’t hear the surf. "Shit," he says, soft, and Sam circles his hips, stretching Dean’s rim, the urge to just fuck in and dump inside him swelling his nuts—but that’s not his duty, not tonight. Dean looks at him, suspended and flushed in Sam’s arms, and Sam slips a tentacle up his chest, to his chin, to his lips with soft silent permission, and Dean’s eyelids dip, heavy, before he opens his mouth, and Sam slides into that wet perfect _blistering_ heat, his tip flattening over Dean’s tongue, and Dean sucks it, tentative, sweet. Sam’s slick oozes from the tip—he can feel it, as easy as he can feel his own dick pump out precome—and Dean groans, swallows it, and that’s—that’s—

Time. It’s time. Sam leans forward, spreads Dean’s legs wider—kisses Dean’s cheek, near where it’s hollow from Dean suckling him—and he drags his dick out into the cold wet air and promises it something better, but he has to make room. With what he’s pushing into Dean, with the prep, he hopes it won’t hurt too much. His two great tentacles slide away from Dean’s waist, curving back up between Sam’s legs where they belong. Their tips are narrower, blunter, because they have one job, and Sam noses them up Dean’s thighs, their tips dragging slick, making it soft and wet. Dean blinks at Sam from behind the pale tentacle gagging him, seeming dazed, and Sam gets his hands behind Dean’s neck, holds him steady. Watches Dean’s face, avid, while below the two tips of his seeking tentacles burrow into the space between Dean’s legs—nosing stupid, clumsy at first from how good Dean’s warmth feels—but then he gets his bearings and they press in, together, burrowing inside at the same time, as deep as they can, surging, and Dean’s eyes fly wide and he moans wild and high, his hands flying to Sam’s hips. Sam presses close, drags his dick against where Dean is held tight and slick, moans. His many arms squeeze, excited shock, and his tentacles push deeper, spreading Dean open as they move from the narrower tips to where they’re thicker, where they have to be thick, and Dean squirms and arches his hips and wails, but his dick’s held so firm and sweet that it hasn’t wilted at all. Sam groans, but Dean’s not wide enough yet—he pulls them back, fucks them in again, and again, and Dean rocks down into it, gasps and gags, and Sam kisses his cheek, his forehead, the leaking wet beside his eye, and shoves in hard with both below and the one in his mouth—pushes it into his throat, pouring the wet solution down into his gut—and Dean wraps his arms around Sam’s shoulders, nails dragging hard enough that he knows he’ll be cut up, but—

Sam groans, long and low. The first egg comes from—he doesn’t know where. It slides down the tentacle, solid, and he’s fucked Dean wide enough that it slips inside without a hitch. The second follows in the other, pushing in, and it’s a relief that feels better than coming, better than the relief of a dislocated bone pushed back into the socket. Something right, happening. At last. Dean’s body shudders and Sam presses closer, drags him up so he’s suspended above Sam’s lap, holding him around the waist with his face buried in Dean’s chest, and god, god it feels so good, egg after egg slipping up and out of Sam into Dean, where they _belong_ , where they were always meant to be. He loses count after a while, the pleasure nearly drugging him, but when his tentacles are done they slacken, losing some girth, and Sam kisses the center of Dean’s sternum and pulls back, and looks.

His stomach’s full. Rounded, like a newly pregnant belly. Well, that’s basically true. Sam’s tentacles pump lazily in and out of Dean’s asshole, satisfied and soft, and he draws the one out of Dean’s throat slowly but it still gushes its clear fluid down his chin when it’s done. Dean’s eyes are nearly black with how huge his pupils are, his hair drenched in sweat. "What did you do, Sam," he says, throat raw from its fucking.

Perfect, Sam thinks, again. The tide’s surging up by his feet. His tentacles slip at last out of Dean’s ass and he licks his lips and pushes his dick in, instead, and it’s hot and sloppy-loose but he doesn’t want Dean to lose a single egg.

"What we had to," Sam says, curling his hips so that he’ll drag across Dean’s prostate, and Dean shudders, clutches at him. Time for their reward, after the work. Sam’s going to make him come so hard he’ll black out, and he fucks in again, makes Dean cry out. Dean’s belly swells between them, a pale stretched moon, and Sam’s so proud he could burst. His tentacles surround them both, curling, as sure and safe as a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/621761971677773825/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-akensing)


	27. SPN: wincest, belly bulge kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural: Sam/Dean, belly bulge kink. Rated E; bunker era, established relationship, body transformation, silly curse fic.

The third time they pass through the town, Sam feels it coming on slow. Something tugs in his belly, like a little flinch of memory, as they pass the standard faded _Welcome To—!_ sign. Been a while and he doesn’t know why they used this road, why Dean didn’t make a huge curving detour around it like they have in times past. Dean makes a little, cut-off noise, when they’ve passed inside city limits, but when Sam looks across the bench seat Dean’s jaw’s all squared-off like he’s ready for an argument, and he doesn’t really feel like giving him one. It’s been a good day. Who knows; maybe it’ll get better, for once, instead of worse.

There’s a motel on the edge of town that they stayed in, before. Dean passes it and they end up at a bar. Kind of scuzzy but that makes it feel homey. Little fleet of motorcycles parked out front, gleaming in the setting sun, and Dean whistles at one. "Classic," he says, admiring, and Sam shakes his head but smiles, too, because Dean’s smiling. Whatever’s coming—well, he’s not that worried about it. They can handle it. They can handle just about anything, together.

Bar’s warm, dim, crowded. Dean leads the way to an empty high-top, hitches his ass up on the seat. His face squinches, in an odd way, but then there’s a waitress smiling at him, sweet, and giving Sam an open up-and-down. She brings their beers fast and hugs her tray up to her stomach in a way that pushes her tits high, round and tan peeking out of her tank top. "Anything else?" she says, over-the-top, and Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam when she’s sent on her way.

"What, are you putting off pheromones?" Dean says, under the music. His pupils are a little wide. Sam licks his lips, looking at him, and Dean’s eyes drop immediately to follow the movement, and Sam wonders. He might be. It’s not as—strange, this time around.

First time they were here it was ridiculous—both of them transforming, Dean turning into a tiny high-pitched twink and Sam a caveman—and the second it was just embarrassing, with Sam going what Dean insisted on calling a ‘boohoo pathetic emo-boy.’ Not a bad description, but not flattering. Sam didn’t think they’d ever be back, thought they’d agreed even if silently that this was just dumb, but here they are. Dean watches his mouth for another few seconds and then seems to notice that Sam’s watching him right back, and he looks away, up to the bar televisions. His ears are already pink. Sam drinks his beer, wondering.

Different motel, on the other side of town. They get a room around midnight from the night clerk and they’re both a little loose, though of course not drunk. They have to actually work for that, these days. Sam still feels—mostly the same, his personality and body not shifting, at least as far as he can tell. He’s just relaxed, and kind of horny from watching Dean get clearly turned on even if he doesn’t know why, and when Dean shuts the door behind them both and they drop their bags, Dean says, "Okay, so," but before he can continue Sam catches his wrist and reels him in, and kisses him.

Soft. Sweet, nearly, which isn’t what Sam usually associates with five beers and a dinner of wings and fries. Dean makes a soft hurt sound against his mouth and clutches at him, curving up into the kiss, letting Sam lick as deep as he likes. "Mm," is the sound he makes, when Sam pulls back, and he drags his hands down Sam’s chest, slow, like he’s savoring it.

"Dean, you know where we are," Sam says. Is his voice deeper? It sometimes is, when he’s turned on, and god, he really is. Dean nods, tipping his head so it’s half-tucked under Sam’s chin, his hands going to Sam’s belt to get it open. "Dude. What are you thinking? You want to be another—what, trope?"

"A what?" Dean says, and Sam would explain but Dean’s got a hand on his dick, all of a sudden, slipping in under the waistband of his jeans, and Sam clutches the back of Dean’s head and sighs, feeling it. Familiar, good. Sweet, the adjective coming to mind again, but that’s not really all that out of the ordinary either, if he lets himself go there. Dean’s his brother, but that word’s never really been sufficient—not enough to explain what they are, together. Dean kisses Sam’s collarbone, jerks him slow, and Sam presses his hips into it, feeling—feeling—

He grunts, surprised. Dean’s breathing heavy, against his chest, and Sam pulls him away a little, looking down between them. Dean hasn’t pulled him out of his jeans and so his dick’s lengthening in an awkward trapped curve under the denim, and Sam feels that usual tight urgency, his balls wanting him to push into something, to fuck, but it’s… bigger, somehow. More. He feels his gut tighten, warm, and his dick—it’s—

"Fuck," Dean says, fervent, and he slides his hand down to follow the bulging line, pressing an almost grotesque shape down the inside of Sam’s right pantleg, bigger than it’s ever been. He squeezes, down by where the head’s finally stopped, and looks dazed. "God, it’s even bigger than I thought it’d be."

Sam feels almost lightheaded for a second. He undoes the button, the zip, and Dean takes a step back to give room—because when Sam shoves at his jeans, gets them to his knees, his dick flops out like—like a fucking _monster_ , thicker and darker and almost grotesque. It’s standing out from his body, eager and ready. Horse-dick, Sam thinks, dry-mouthed, but when he looks at Dean he’s just greeted with Dean flushing rose-red, his lips wet and dark like he’s been biting at them. "Jesus, Sammy," he says, sore and faint, and when Dean finally looks up at his face he’s nearly drunk-looking _._ He strips in record time, shoving off layers and boots until he’s naked in the lamplight, and he’s—paler, maybe, than usual, and Sam can see his freckles better than usual, but he’s still Sam’s brother, still recognizable, his dick still heavy against his thigh, his body still muscular where it needs to be and soft, where Sam loves it.

Dean reaches out almost tentative, his fingers tender when they skim over Sam’s dick. He grips Dean’s shoulder, pushes reflexively into it. He doesn’t know how big he is normally—Dean claims he measured once when Sam was sleeping and got seven inches soft, which may or may not be true—but he’s usually a shower, not a grower, so this is…

"What is this, a foot-long?" Dean says, rough-voiced. He grips and his hand goes around, but only barely. "Baker’s dozen?"

His face, and him pushing up against Sam. He drags his hand up to the big purple-dark head and Sam squeezes his eyes shut, his self-control fraying. He knows what Dean wants but there’s no way. "It won’t fit," he says, trying to hold on. He can imagine, trying to shove in. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder, balls aching. "I don’t want to—I don’t know what story this is supposed to be, but I’m not gonna hurt you."

Dean’s hand, on his jaw—breath—and he tips his head down in time to meet the kiss, Dean combing his fingers through Sam’s hair, calming him down. It’s good, the way Dean’s mouth is always good—practiced and familiar, knowing just the right amount of give-and-take—but then Dean peels Sam’s hand off his shoulder, taking control. He slides it down, along his back, and over his ass, and he sucks at Sam’s lower lip when he guides Sam lower, lower, until his fingers brush—metal?

He pulls back, startled. Dean blinks at him, eyes almost black. "Felt it go in when we came into town," he says, and tugs Sam backwards until his legs hit the bed, and when he falls back and spreads his knees wide Sam can see it. A plug. Jesus, a plug, with a thick circular base pressing Dean open, and Sam goes to his knees, spreads Dean’s legs wider to look. Dean breathes shaky just from him looking, his erection twitching heavily against his hip, and Sam has to touch, gripping the plug, twisting. Dean makes a tight weird noise, his hips lifting, and he grabs Sam’s wrist. Not stopping him. "Fuck—Sammy. It’s been—stretching me out, all night, and I’m—feel, I’m so fuckin’ _wet_."

Sam’s jaw’s been slack; his mouth’s dry. He gulps air and grips the plug, pulls, and watching the fat silver base of it bloom out of Dean’s asshole is—jesus, jesus, he didn’t—he didn’t know Dean could _get_ that wide. He could fit his fist in there, he thinks, unbidden, and just for thinking it he ducks down and sucks in Dean’s dick, the familiar bitter-salt replaced with—sweet, fuck, he’s so sweet, and Sam goes down to the base and fucks the plug in and out, his fingertips gauging the fat slide of it, how it’s stretching Dean wide, getting him slack and ready.

Dean grips his head, thighs cringing up either side of Sam’s shoulders—groans, and whines, and says fervent _Sammy, Sammy please_ , and it’s—not that different, not that strange, and Sam slurps off his dick with a wet gulping noise and lets it slap back against Dean’s belly, and Dean looks at him down the stretch of his body and says again, "Please, come on—just do it," and Sam sits back on his heels and pulls the plug all the way out, gleaming, imagining—it sitting heavy up in Dean’s guts, all night, while they drank and watched the game, while random faceless women flirted with Sam, while they wanted him, and Dean knew—the whole time, he knew—and when the plug’s finally out Dean _gushes_ , clear lube-slick wet pushing out of his asshole, dripping onto the bed, and Sam knows what he’s meant to do, how this story is supposed to go, and he grabs Dean and pushes him up further onto the bed, pushes his legs wide and kneels up high, and he pushes in without needing to ask, without pausing, because Dean’s—built, for him. Dean wants him. Dean needs him, deep, and Dean responds instantly, moaning wild and loud, one hand grabbing Sam’s arm and the other flashing down to the inches of his dick, holding the fat pole of it as it pushes deeper, deeper, spreading Dean even wider than the plug did.

"Fuck, you’re gonna bust me open," Dean says, frail, and Sam moans and shoves forward, past any resistance, and Dean yelps as his hand gets knocked away, his whole body arching so that only his shoulders are left on the bed, his hips caught up in Sam’s grip, and—and—

"Holy shit," Sam says, breathless. He’s throbbing, his balls pressed up against Dean’s ass. He pets Dean’s hips, soothing, but his attention is somewhere else. He pulls back a few inches, pushes back, and he’s—he’s not imagining it. "Dean," he says, and he grabs one of Dean’s hands, rough, presses it against the low pit of Dean’s belly, just under his navel where Dean’s always had that softness, that plush skin that Sam’s bitten up, on wilder days. Dean’s hand fits smaller, under Sam’s, and he presses it flat and tight against the skin, and when he hauls his hips back and then shoves back in Dean feels it and his mouth falls wide, his hips flattening against Sam’s. "You feel?" Sam says, fuck-stupid, and Dean nods just as stupid back, feeling the girthy fat head of Sam’s monstrous dick pushing up inside him, insanely deep, deep enough that it’s pressing Dean’s belly out like he’s a hundred-pound twink. Sam does it again just to watch Dean’s face flinch, their knuckles grinding together, and then he can’t hold back anymore and grips Dean’s ass and shoves in, shoves again, long deep in-and-out fucking like he almost never indulges in, and Dean cries out and squirms and grips at him, his insides splitting wide around Sam’s colossal length, but Sam—he _knows_ it’s okay, knows that Dean’s open and wet and hungry for him. Means he has permission, down to the bones, and he kneels up and fucks up into Dean’s guts and makes Dean wail, makes him cry, makes his dick spit up against his tummy where Sam’s shoving him full.

Dean comes first, his legs tightening around Sam’s hips and his hands pushing against the headboard, shoving him down deeper onto Sam’s cock, and he’s so wet it gushes out of him at both ends, his dick creaming up his belly and his ass spasming tight enough around Sam’s girth that the wet slides down, drips off Sam’s balls onto the mattress. He sobs for air, grips at the pillow, and Sam leans down and hooks his arm under Dean’s hips and hitches him boneless into just the right place for Sam to cram in deeper, deeper, and Dean moans and shakes and lets him, lets him, his body pummeled into a soft sweet new thing, something that he can bury his face into and push up inside and own, deep enough that he’ll never leave.

Almost a surprise, when he finally comes. His hips flinch, against Dean’s sore open ass, and he unloads for what feels like a full minute, his balls clutching up and pouring themselves out, Dean moaning like he can feel it. Sam presses down hard against his belly, where he’s bumping the shape of himself out of Dean’s skin, and he can almost feel the twitch. His dick, doing everything it can.

It’s a slow, heavy slide out. He watches, doesn’t pretend otherwise. The fat dark girth of him, slicking out. The way Dean’s rim is all creamed up, stretched so wide it’s totally smooth. When his head finally pops free Dean gapes a little, a punched-out dark circle, and when Sam pumps Dean’s limp wet dick Dean gasps, and his asshole spasms, trying to tighten but hardly able to. A gush, then—cream, Sam’s jizz spilling free, and Sam doesn’t think before he dips down, licks up the spill. Dean moans harder, says breathless up somewhere north _Sam, what—_ but Sam doesn’t listen, just licks soft and as gentle as he can, slurping up the mess, the taste of himself mixed with Dean’s unnatural creamy sweet.

He holds it in his mouth, thick. He kisses Dean’s tired nuts, and his soft shaft, and licks up a thick gobby pool of Dean’s own come that’s caught in his navel. Dean’s skin shudders, all over. Sam crawls up, kissing his sternum, and his nipple, and when he props himself up so they’re level Dean’s—a wreck. Sweaty, fucked-out. Sam smiles at him, close-lipped, and then dips in and kisses him wide, and when their shared load pours into Dean’s mouth he shudders, again, his fingers curling helplessly against Sam’s stomach.

Sam looks at him, when he’s done. His dick’s still fat, mostly hard, dragging against Dean’s small soft shaft. "You knew," he says, and watches Dean open drugged-looking dark eyes. "Dean. As soon as we came into town."

Dean bites his lip. His thighs splay weak around Sam’s hips, his whole body open. "I sent a girl a message," he says, finally. His voice has gone rough, low. "With an idea. I didn’t know if it’d—it might not have worked."

A little red, in his cheeks. Sam tilts his head, something a little weird curling under his gut. "You want more?" he says. They have—when they’re not here, in this bizarre town—good sex, he thinks. Fun sex. He didn’t realize—

Dean shakes his head, though, and his knees come up enough to squeeze Sam. "Just a fantasy," he says, firm, and Sam believes him. He looks down between their bodies. "Crazy, right?"

Sam studies his face. He braces on one arm, and slides his other hand down, pressing deep and low against Dean’s belly. "I was right here," he says, and Dean’s lashes flicker. He rocks his ridiculous dick against Dean’s, and then tilts his hips enough to slide past Dean’s balls, between his split-open cheeks, the fat head catching against where Dean’s still open. Wet. Dean blinks, looks up at him. Sam licks his lips, wondering. "Want me up there? All up inside, Dean. Like fucking a baby in there, making your belly all big."

A flinch—Dean’s eyes opening, in real surprise. Sam’s hardening up fast, rubbing against Dean’s wet, and he dips in for a kiss. "Want me to?" Sam says, and Dean breathes hot in his face, and nods, and Sam rolls him over, gets his knees up underneath him. Sam presses four fingers into him, presses him wide, his fat dick nosing up into the gap. Dean groans, grasping at the bedcovers. "Gonna stretch you out," Sam promises, and when he pushes inside he has Dean’s hand right in his, ready to batter his palm when he shoves out his belly from the inside. Sam doesn’t know whether this town is cursed or not, or why this happens always when they’re here, but he pushes in and makes Dean gasp, and thinks—well—maybe they won’t try to break the spell this time. Not until morning, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/621946505999286272/in-support-of-black-lives-matter-an-anonymous)


End file.
